House of Cards
by F Le Rulz
Summary: Sookie Stackhouse is a telepathic New York socialite. When business and fate cause her to encounter one Eric Northman, cutthroat businessman and vampire, the world she knows comes tumbling down. AU E/S. M for content in later chapters.
1. Murder Game

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything you recognize. The characters belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball. I've taken material both from the books and from the show.

**Summary: **Sookie Stackhouse is a telepathic New York socialite. When business and fate cause her to encounter one Eric Northman, cutthroat businessman and vampire, the world she knows comes tumbling down.

**A/N: **Think Gossip Girl meets True Blood/SVM novels. Like any chick lit, it has plenty of clothes and shoes, romance and drama. Just sit back, relax, and enjoy!

**Chapter 1: Murder Game**

Mornings in the Upper East Side are great daily migrations as people move from home to work. Cars line the streets, and the horns sound like battle cries as commuters vie with one another to slip into any possible space on the road. Even in my seventieth storey penthouse, I can still hear the incessant angry honking.

Mornings are one of those times when I am particularly grateful for my parents' ability to churn out cash. That is, before they were swept away by a flood on a road trip when I was seven. After that, our grandmother took us in, my brother Jason and me. Gran is from an old and prestigious family, the Hales. Her grandfather had worked in the property business. Her father had taken over after my great-grandfather died, and so the business had been passed down through the family from father to son, until Gran's generation. At first, it had been passed to her brother, my great-uncle, Bartlett Hale. The thing was, he...wasn't the type of person that anyone had wanted to represent the family company. At first, when the news had leaked, no one wanted to believe it. Bartlett, of course, denied the fact that he'd had sex with two underage girls from poor families. I suspect that he paid their families a lot to shut them up and stop them from pressing charges, before running them out of the state. However, it is impossible to wrap fire in paper. Those two girls weren't his only victims. There was my cousin Hadley, and then...there was me.

To cut a long story short, he'd resigned as the CEO and moved back to Louisiana, and my father, Corbett Stackhouse, took over the running of the company until he went and died in a flash flood. This brings me back to the present as I stand at the window of my living room and sip a cup of perfectly brewed coffee whilst I am still in my robe. I, Sookie Stackhouse, am not one of those people who need to make the morning commute to my work place, mainly because I don't have one, unless 'socialite' or 'rich girl' is actually a profession. Granted, sometimes being a Stackhouse woman does feel like a full time job with no set hours.

I suppose I could have worked for the company, but I'd discovered early on that I had no taste for the family business. When I was little, my father sometimes took me to board meetings. The thing was, he was one of the few people who knew about and sort of accepted my little quirk, as I like to call it. I am not just any Upper East Side socialite. I am a telepathic Upper East Side socialite. Imagine what _that_ must be like, hearing all the thoughts of the people in this particular circle. Trust me, it's not fun seeing the most intimate details of Kevin Berger's affair with one of his married neighbours and then hearing his commentary. There is a reason why I tend to isolate myself in order to try and find a little bit of peace.

My ability is not without its benefits. It makes interviewing and hiring household staff very easy, for one, and I sometimes do attend board meetings just to make sure that things are going as well as the board members say they are. They've learned long ago not to lie to me.

The thing is, however, I don't really know what to do with myself. I could go to college, I suppose, but high school had been bad enough. I could get a job, but what sort of job can a girl with no college education land? Waitressing and other jobs with low educational requirements are out of the question. Gran is very open-minded and liberal, but even so, we Stackhouses have an image to keep up. The media would have a field day if word ever got out that I became a waitress.

I decide to go and see my friend Sam later in the day. He owns a cafe slash bar slash bookstore. Like me, it doesn't know what it wants to be, but it's a comfortable little place, and sometimes Sam gets these rare antique books. I like being with him. His mind is different from the others, and I can't hear his thoughts very clearly. Granted, I don't need to be a telepath to know that he is interested in me, and not just as a friend. Unfortunately for poor Sam, he is forever relegated to the friend category in my book. There just isn't that sort of chemistry between us, at least not from where I stand.

Picking out an outfit is like preparing for battle, even though I'm not expecting any skirmishes until tonight. There's a party —invitations only— that my Gran's hosting, and as a member of the family, I'm expected to show up early and leave late. Such functions may resemble normal parties, but believe me, they're the scenes of subtle battles between 'frenemies' and real enemies. A well-made stiletto can mean the difference between victory and defeat. With all this in my mind, I snatch my most comfortable pair of dark wash jeans off the top of the pile, a white t-shirt, a pair of cowboy booties with a stacked heel and a leather jacket. There is no need to bring out the blazing guns when one is going undercover. Besides, utilitarian style is the hottest thing right now. All right, my jacket is Balenciaga, my jeans are from Diesel, my t-shirt is Calvin Klein and my shoes are from Rag & Bone. They're lower profile than a bejewelled Valentino gown and Louboutin heels, right?

I call for my driver. Louis used to be Mom and Dad's chauffeur. He's more like a favourite uncle than one of the help. I remember telling him all about my day at school. I think he suspects that I'm different, but he's never said anything about it and he treats me just like he would anyone else. "Thanks, Louis," I say as I hop in the car. "I might want to stop by Bergdorf's afterwards," I tell him. "You don't mind, do you?" I want to find some inspiration for what I'm going to be wearing tonight. Perhaps there'll be some fabulous statement necklace that will turn an already stunning dress into a spectacular suit of armour. I might be into utilitarianism, but I like my shiny dangly things as much as any other woman, although not as much as a few certain individuals. Speaking of which...

My phone starts ringing, belting out a dark orchestral techno song by a German artist. I don't know what the lyrics mean, but I like dancing to the tune. Arlene's on the other end. I'm probably the only friend she has in this level of society. Arlene used to be a waitress a _long_ time ago before she married Walter Birmingham, who owned a chain of bars and casinos. Birmingham has recently his businesses to some newcomer, like a great many in our circle. It's only thanks to Gran's management abilities and sharp business mind that Hale Limited didn't join the rest of them. The new guy, a vampire, was someone to be reckoned with.

Ever since the vampires 'came out of the coffin' a couple of years ago, they've made quite an impact on society. For the first time, they could deal and trade freely without fear of being exposed. Many of them have had centuries of business experience, and are undoubtedly some of the best businessmen around. Our new 'neighbour', whom I've never met, is one of those. Eric Northman now runs a successful vampire-themed franchise, with his flagship business being a popular bar slash strip club. I've never been there. Don't get me wrong. I've got nothing against vampires. They can't help being what they are. It's just that it's not my scene, all this nightclub stuff.

"You'll _never _guess what happened!" Arlene squeals as soon as I answer the phone. She doesn't give me a chance to guess. "Rene proposed!"

Rene Lenier owns a chain of automobile dealerships. "Congratulations, Arlene!" I say.

"He bought me the most _beautiful_ ring!" I continued to let her gush. Arlene's lasted in our circle a lot longer than most other women like her who try to secure their own futures by marrying rich men. Ruder people would call them 'gold-diggers', but my Gran brought us up to be polite to, no matter their class or race or creed. Besides, Arlene's not a particularly bad person. She just has bad taste and a slightly narrow mind. Well, not just slightly. "The central diamond alone must be at least five carats!"

"He must _really_ love you, sweetie," I enthuse. "What do Coby and Lisa think of their new dad?"

"Oh, Rene's so wonderful with them. They really like him. I think this is it, Sookie darling. He's the one." Yeah, the fifth one. I quickly reprimand myself for my uncharitable thoughts. I really want Arlene to be able to find Mr. Right. I just don't think such a thing exists in the upper echelons of society. Marriage is hardly ever for love. It's mostly for politics and business. She gushes for a few more minutes, and then tells me that she has to go and look at wedding shoes. I promise to go dress shopping with her sometime soon.

Louis pulls up outside Merlotte's. "Hey, Sook!" Sam greets me when I enter. "It's been a while. You're looking good."

"You too, Sam," I say. "Have you got any new stock?"

"I saved a found a nineteenth century copy of _Pride and Prejudice _for you, cher," says Sam as he picks a beautifully bound volume off the shelf. I inhale the scent of the pages. In case you haven't noticed, I love old books. It doesn't matter if it's Machiavelli or Austen, or some obscure title that no one's ever heard of. I always feel that these old books contain secrets, and if you can unlock them, you become a part of a secret and magical club. It's silly, I know, but I'm allowed my little guilty pleasures.

"Oh, it's beautiful," I say, lovingly stroking the antique print with my fingers. "How much is it?"

"I was thinking of giving it to you as an early birthday present," Sam says with a blush. He's your stereotypical sweet country boy.

"Sam, it's too much," I tell him. "Antique books aren't cheap. I have enough of them to know. I'd say that this is worth three hundred dollars _at least_."

"The guy who sold it on eBay didn't know how much it was worth and I got it for fifty," Sam mutters. "It's within your 'gift budget'."

I always tell my friends that I don't need expensive presents, and I set the limit at sixty dollars. _I_ never buy gifts for anyone that are over that amount, unless they're for Gran, in which case the rule doesn't apply.

Sam and I argue for a while about whether I should or shouldn't pay for the book. At last, Sam wins. I make up for it by buying three hundred dollars worth of other books as well as a large cup of latte for Louis. "Someday, cher, you're gonna have to learn to accept gifts graciously," Sam tells me.

"Someday," I say. "But not yet." He grins and shuts the door behind me. I wave to him through the window as we drive off. Next, Bergdorf's, and then the salon for a facial and mani-pedi.

* * *

The function is supposed to raise funds for returned soldiers who find that their veteran benefits aren't enough to get them the reconstruction surgeries they need. I thought I'd arrived early, but when I step inside, I find that some people are even earlier than me. Mrs. Fortenberry was already directing the help and rearranging the name cards on the table. "Ashley Rushworth just broke up with Daniel Harrington," she tells me as she moves Ashley's card to a seat next to Jason's. "I don't think they'll be wanting to sit together, poor things."

I vaguely remember Daniel from school. He was a jock and he'd almost been expelled for smoking joints in the boys' bathroom. Things didn't improve for him after that incident. If Ashley broke up with him, then good for her. I find that I've been placed next to Hoyt Fortenberry. Mrs. Fortenberry always wishes that I'd marry her grandson. She thinks I'm a good girl because I don't smoke, do drugs, or have rampant serial sex. Actually, I don't have sex, full stop. It's not because I'm a prude, but with my, uh, _ability_, intimate acts can be really awkward.

For tonight, I've decided to go for classic sophistication with a white Louis Vuitton strapless dress that ends just above my knees. The fitted bodice, sweetheart neckline and full skirt show off my curves to their best effects. Strappy gold sandals from Mr. Louboutin sets off my perfect pedicure. I've chosen a classic red. It matches the soles of my shoes. My manicure is also red, although I've veered away from classic red lipstick and gone for something closer to chocolate plum. A statement necklace of gold chains pulls the look together.

"Sookie, darling, you look wonderful," says Gran, coming over to greet me with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. She doesn't look bad herself. She's styled her hair in a French twist and her makeup is barely there, although I know that it must have taken her makeup artist an hour to apply. She's in a pale pink Chanel suit, and she'd chosen a pair of pink satin heels to match. It's hard to believe that this is the Gran who would spend the entire day in silk pajamas if she didn't have to go out. Granted, Coco Chanel herself had made silk pajamas a fashion item, so...

"Everything looks great, Gran," I say honestly. "It's very patriotic." A huge flag of the United States hangs at the front of the room. The entire set up reminds me of something from _Gone with the Wind_. Our family was originally from Louisiana, and our heritage is very important to Gran. Ever since we were little, she's been telling us about stories from the Civil War. Some of our relatives had fought in it, so it's very close to her heart. She's also fascinated by history in general.

"I'm glad you think so," Gran says. "I have spent such a lot of time preparing this. I've even invited a very special guest to talk to us." She's so excited and energetic that it's hard to believe that she's seventy five this year.

"Do I know him?" I ask.

"I'm pretty sure you don't. His name is Mr. William Compton." She leans in closer to me and whispers conspiratorially. "He's a vampire. Isn't that exciting?"

A lot of people were scared when the vampires first announced their existence. Gran was not one of them. "They've been around for so long and everything's been fine," she said the next morning after the announcement. "I don't see why things are going to be _not_ fine now that they're out in the open." I agreed with her. Jason didn't think so, but Jason isn't very good at reasoning so I've never found out why he doesn't like vampires.

I've never met a vampire before. Like I've mentioned, they don't exactly share the same circles as I do. The only vampire I've ever heard of before today is Eric Northman, and only because all the people in the business world are wondering about him. He's never come to any of these charity galas. I suppose the upper class social scene isn't his thing. "What does he do for an...um...existence?"

"Well, I don't rightly know," says Gran. Don't get me wrong. Gran loves a bit of gossip as much as anyone, only she doesn't spread it the way some people do. "But I've heard that he's inherited a couple of estates and sold them for a good price, you know, after the last human of his human family passed away. Did you know that he's supposedly a Civil War veteran? That's the reason I asked him to come and talk to us, and he so very kindly agreed."

Images of Rhett Butler immediately fill my mind. Yes, I do dream of being Scarlett O'Hara. Although Elizabeth Bennet is pretty cool too, and who doesn't want their own Mr. Darcy?

Gran excuses herself so she can see how the caterers are doing, leaving me alone to daydream, although not for long. People have been talking about this function for ages, and everyone worth inviting is coming. Arlene arrives on Rene's arm. I haven't the heart to tell her that she's gonna sink like the _Titanic_ with all the jewellery she has on, and that she should leave some mascara for the next day. Tara will tell her later.

Tara Thornton is one of my closest friends. She's not afraid to say what she thinks so she comes across as being extremely rude to some people, but she's honest and loyal and she doesn't care that I'm a little strange. I love her confidence, her outrageous style, and her bold laugh. Speaking of the devil, Tara sweeps in. She looks like a drop of summer on a dreary winter morning, with her colourful Pucci silk print gown and her dark skin. I've always envied her ability to wear every colour on the spectrum. If I wear orange, it makes me look jaundiced. On her, it's like a burst of sunshine. "Well, don't you look like the princess that you are," she said as she rushes over —in five inch beige Jimmy Choos, no less— to hug me.

"And you look like an Amazonian queen," I say.

"You think Jason's going to like it?" Tara has a crush on Jason, and has had it ever since high school. I don't think Jason's ever seen her as anything other than his little sister's best friend. Personally, I think she can do much better than Jason, even if he is my brother and I do love him.

"Is Jason coming?" I ask. He usually worms his way out of these things. The last time, it was because he had a 'flash flu'.

"I called him and he said he was," she says.

As night falls, more people arrive, dressed in their finest. "Sookie," says Gran. She is leading an attractive dark-haired stranger towards me. I notice at once that he's different. Normal people don't glow, and normal people don't have silent minds. He had to be the vampire, and he isn't what I expected.

Stereotypes aren't good, but sometimes we just can't get rid of them, no matter how hard we try. My idea of a vampire is the Nosferatu type, or maybe the sparkly kind, but this vampire definitely doesn't fit into either criteria. If he didn't glow, he would seem completely normal. He is in a beige suit, with a blue shirt and blue chequered tie. All right, so his fashion sense isn't the best, but I shouldn't really judge people based on their style. "This is Mr. William Compton," says Gran, beaming. "Mr. Compton, this is my granddaughter, Sookie."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Stackhouse," Mr. Compton says as he bows. Yes, he _bowed_ to me. It is rather strange. I am a modern woman and no one bows anymore, except on stage and perhaps during dancing. What is wrong with a handshake? Does he expect me to bow or curtsey back? I'm definitely not doing it. Instead, I nod in what I hope is a friendly and polite manner.

"It is a pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Compton," I say. Gran winks as me as she leaves me alone with the vampire. I don't really know what to say. He must be at least one and a half centuries old. He regards me with unblinking eyes, as if assessing me. His stance reminds me of a documentary I once saw about top predators. He looks like a predator analyzing me, trying to determine whether I would be suitable prey or not.

"Do you want me to show you where your seat is, Mr. Compton?" I ask, breaking the silence between us.

"Thank you, but no. I already know where I am sitting," he replies. It turns out he's sitting next to me.

* * *

I sleep in late the next morning. Last night left me drained, but in a good way. No, Mr. Compton didn't touch me. He was polite and charming, and afterwards, before he left, he asked me if I was interested in going out for a drink with him sometime. I didn't say yes and I didn't say no. Actually, I think I was suitably vague. I didn't want to him to think that I was desperate or anything. I'm not desperate. Well, perhaps a little. Everyone around me is getting laid, getting engaged and getting married. Sometimes, even independent women just want to go with the flow.

Jason did end up turning up last night. He spent the entire evening flirting with the ladies. They love him, even though he's...not the brightest bulb in the room. I don't see what they see in him, but I _am_ his sister. He can be considerate if he puts his mind to it. He just generally doesn't.

For a lack of something to do, I sit down on the white leather settee and switch on the TV to watch the news as I eat my warm croissant and drink my coffee—black, no sugar, thank you very much. They're reporting a high profile murder. I almost spray my TV with coffee.

Maudette Pickens was in my senior year class. She wasn't bright, but she was nice, if a little dull. She had a drug problem two years ago, but she went to rehab and from what I know, she's stayed out of trouble afterwards. Well, until now. I can't believe that it's her body they're carrying out on a gurney in a black body bag. Somehow, the media manages to report that she had bite marks on her thighs and neck. What is even worse is that Jason reportedly left her building sometime early this morning, drunk off his arse, and he is now a 'person of interest'.

I dial my brother's number. He doesn't pick up, and I wait until I get redirected to voicemail. Then I decide to go find him. He only lives one floor below me. Gran is yet another floor below the two of us. We own this building so we got to pick whichever floors we liked once we were old enough to have our own floors. I had to beat Jason at chess to get the penthouse, not that it was that hard. And no, I didn't cheat.

I arrive to find that Gran is already there, and the reason Jason isn't answering his phone is because he's lost it. "I didn't do it, I swear!" he's telling Gran.

"I know, sweetheart, but you don't even remember what you were doing in her apartment," says Gran. Sometimes, my grandmother's faith in the goodness of her grandchildren astounds me. Jason's not a bad guy, but he's definitely not a good boy.

I can tell that my brother is trying to find a nice way to break it to her that he was having a one night stand with Maudette Pickens when security announces that 'Detective Bellefleur' from the NYPD is here to ask Jason a few questions.

We've known Andy Bellefleur for a very long time. His family are old blue bloods, just like us. Originally, his family were in the import export business, but Andy decided to not follow in the family business and became a policeman. His sister, Portia, is now a renowned criminal defence attorney. I'm hoping that we won't need to hire her. Andy is naturally suspicious of people, a quick scan of his mind tells me that he's wondering what motive Jason has for killing Maudette and how the bite marks tie in. Maudette was strangled with her own hosiery. I see her glassy dead eyes and the ligature marks on her neck in Andy's mind. He's determined to find the killer and bring him to justice. Andy's not just an idealistic cop. He wants to be a hero who's lauded on TV.

Jason tells Andy about how he left the function early last night with Maudette. They went to her apartment, which doesn't have very good security. He went to her apartment instead of taking her back home because he didn't want to be seen with her. At this moment in time, I'm not very proud of my brother. He tells Andy about the couple of joints they smoked and then the sex they had. After that, he doesn't remember anything. He definitely doesn't remember strangling anyone.

The key lies with the bite marks, of that I'm sure. Maudette's few friends said that Maudette liked to frequent a vampire bar. She loved the vampire lifestyle and wished that she could be a vampire. The bite marks on Maudette's neck and leg look plenty fresh in Andy's mind, and the coroner's report says that they occurred from anywhere between a day to four hours ante mortem.

All right, so I took a rummage in the detective's head. It's not like that's a federal offense.

* * *

Serial killers have gripped our imaginations for decades. We are curious about them and we are disgusted by them. We wonder how people are driven to kill over and over again, in the same manner. Their victims are usually not entirely random. Sometimes, they manage to escape the law for years. When a serial killer appears in the midst of a community, we all live in fear. We don't know who they will select or when they will strike. It's impossible to predict such things, unless you happen to be psychic or, in my case, telepathic.

Still, I didn't know that Maudette had been killed by a serial killer, until Dawn Green turns up dead in her apartment, strangled with the wire of her cell phone charger and with bite marks on her neck. Of course, Jason had a sexual relationship with her as well. Sometimes, I wonder whether Jason has had a sexual relationship with every woman in Manhattan.

I didn't know Dawn very well. She was a barista who worked part time at Merlotte's and sometimes picked up one off gigs as a waitress at private functions, like the one we just had. I did, however, overhear her talking about a vampire bar that she wanted to visit. In fact, it's the same bar that Maudette visited.

I make up my mind. I am going to take up William Compton's offer, but I'm going to choose the place.

* * *

It is business as usual, and Eric is bored out of his mind. He's spent a thousand years roaming the world and really, humans haven't changed all that much. The people who visit his bar tend to be the dregs of humanity; the people who just want to be bitten, the youngsters who have too much time and money, the people so bored with life that they would do anything for something to spice it up.

He passes the time surfing the internet. Thank the gods for Blackberries, and not the edible kind. He doesn't remember the taste of blackberries. And then he smells something. At first, the scent is not strong. It is carried in by the breeze as the door of his club opens, along with exhaust fumes and smells from the sewers. He catches just a whiff before it is gone. He texts Pam, his child, who is manning the door. She hasn't sensed anything.

Moments later, he smells it again. This time, it is much stronger, and it lingers in the air. He follows the scent and sees the source. Mmm...now _this _is something different.

* * *

I have no idea how to dress for a vampire nightclub. I haven't told anyone where I'm going, not even Gran. I just told her I'm going out with Mr. Compton tonight. She trusts me and she doesn't ask too many questions. At any rate, she's too busy fending off the media's questions about Jason's involvement in the murders. They haven't come to me yet. I'm not the type of socialite who ends up on page six so I'm not sure if they even know I exist. If I'm there, I'm just part of the background. There's nothing interesting about me, at least, not their version of interesting. Mind you, if anyone ever finds out I'm a telepath, I guarantee you that I won't be on page six. I'll be on the cover...of something like _New Scientist_.

I end up choosing a Herve Leger body-con dress in white. It clings to all my curves and the hem hits mid-thigh. To that, I add a statement necklace, a shearling aviator jacket and a pair of 'Fuck Me' heels —platform patent nude Louboutin peep toes with cut outs that make my tanned legs look as if they go on forever. I let my hair fall in loose blonde waves around my shoulders and I even manage to create a smoky eye with brown and bronze eye shadow and a generous dose of mascara. I'm not vain, but I must say I look _pretty_ good. Finally, I put on the finishing touch; two sprays of Gucci Envy. Scent, I've heard, is a very important accessory.

Mr. Compton —he'd asked me to call him Bill— arrives five minutes early, but I'm already done. He takes one look at me and shakes his head.

"Is something wrong with what I'm wearing?" I ask? All right, maybe the Alexander McQueen clutch with the skull clasp was a little over the top, but I thought it was suitable for a vampire club.

"No, not at all," he says. "But I must warn you, Sookie, if you go into Fangtasia dressed like that, I can't guarantee that I'll be able to keep the other vampires away from you."

"I don't intend to keep them away," I say. He raises an eyebrow at me and then offers me his arm.

There is a long line outside the nightclub, and I realize that maybe I'm not so appropriately dressed after all. The regulars are dressed in filmy viscose dresses or leather corsets and some are even in spandex, or just tit tape and panties and nothing else. Everything is black. There are neon lights saying 'Fangtasia' in jazzy writing on the wall. Apart from the name and the leather, there is nothing to set this club apart from so many others. The patrons' minds are filled with sex; both sex with vampires and sex with one another. So far, no serial killers.

Bill takes me up to the female vampire manning the door. She's in a tight black leather dress, with black lipstick...and tiny subtle gold Chanel studs with the interlocking C and seed diamonds. I have a feeling that all this pseudo gothic stuff is not her preferred attire.

"Pam," Bill greets her.

"Bill Compton," she says in a bored voice before turning to look at me. Then she grins and her fangs drop, only, she's not looking at _me_, per se.

She's looking at my shoes.


	2. Just Good Business

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. The character belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball. I have taken elements from both the books and the show.

**A/N: **Thanks for all the great responses! It's really heartening for a writer when she knows that her readers like what she's doing. Feedback is much appreciated.

**Chapter 2: Just Good Business**

Being analyzed by a vampire is not so different from being analyzed by another one of my peers. The female at the door takes in the sight of my shoes, my dress, my clutch, my jacket, and then finally her eyes reach my face. "ID?" she asks.

It's funny. I haven't been carded in a while, not since my twenty first birthday bash when Tara and Arlene and a few other of my friends insisted on dragging me to a night club to party the night away. I hand over my driver's licence. A lot of the girls I know have never learned to drive, relying only on chauffeurs and boyfriends, but I like the independence of being able to operate my own vehicle. I have a yellow Volkswagen New Beetle that I drive out to the Hamptons every weekend.

The vampire inspects my licence, checks my face against the photo on it —I have no idea why driver's licence photos are always so unattractive— and then nods. "You can go in," she says, giving me one last look. "Good luck getting out."

As Bill leads me inside, the music and the thoughts slam into me all at once, almost overwhelming me. I thought the minds of the people outside were bad enough, but the people inside are even worse. Yes, the thoughts about sex are still there, but now they're more specific, and they're centred on a few identifiable individuals. We sit down at one of the round glass top tables and a waitress in black leather pants and a black leather cropped corset comes to take our orders. I'm definitely not dressed appropriately for this place. My white bodycon dress makes me stick out like a sore bandaged thumb.

I ask for a gin and tonic, and Bill orders bottled blood, of course. As I sip my drink, my eyes are drawn to the raised dais facing the front door. I noticed him when I first came in, but I didn't want to seem like a tourist at a theme park. However, it appears that he has deliberately put himself on display. One of the bolder patrons of the club crawls up the steps of the dais. I watch in disgust and morbid fascination as he tries to kiss his boot. Without looking up from his Blackberry, he kicks the man away, sending him flying through the air and into one of the tables. There is no mistake about it. This vampire is in charge.

I must have been looking at him for a very long time, because the next thing I know, I feel a hand on the top of my head as Bill turns me around to face him.

"Bill, stop it," I say irritably. "I know what I want to look at."

"You're staring," he says. He doesn't look too pleased. "Do you know him?"

"Everyone knows _of_ Eric Northman," I say. "No one really _knows_ him."

"Well, _I_ know him," Bill says. "He's the oldest thing in this club."

"I wouldn't be surprised," I say. "Vampires _are_ immortal."

Our conversation doesn't improve. After that exchange, we fall silent. I try to take in everything around me. It's easy to differentiate between the vampires and the humans. The vampires all looked either bored or annoyed that they have to be here. The humans are afraid and excited and like me, they stare a _lot. _

Bill slowly becomes distracted. There are girls who are thirsting for his attention. They have no idea why he's with me because I'm not throwing myself all over him the way they are. Presently, three other vampires stop by our table; two males and a female. "Well, well, if it isn't Billy Compton," says the female. She's beautiful, with mocha skin and a dark halo of hair, but her dress...well, low cut, tight, short and sparkly is just trashy. In fact, it looks more like a shirt than a dress. "Who's the cute little critter?"

_Critter_? I almost choke on my drink and I'm about to deliver an acerbic comeback —involving something about pants— when Bill answers. "She's with me."

"Your...what do humans call it...date?" says the vampire. "So, how is the mainstreaming going anyway? It looks awfully boring. You should stop by. In fact, we're on our way back, since we're having a party and all." She licks her lips. I don't think her idea of a party is the same as mine, and I certainly don't like the look she's giving me, as if I'm the chocolate soufflé that she wants to serve as dessert at her bash. Bill looks torn. I can tell he's really wants to go.

"You don't have to stay," I tell him. "I'll be fine." I don't know if that's true, but if Eric Northman is as good a businessman as they say he is, I don't think he's going to let anyone kill me inside his establishment, or outside. It just wouldn't be good for business.

"Are you sure?" Bill asks.

"Yeah," I say. "I'll just have a look around and then I'll catch a cab home. You go and enjoy yourself. I know I haven't been much fun tonight."

"Well, aren't you a sweet thing?" coos the female vampire in the most condescending manner.

"Not particularly," I say in the most conceited voice I can muster. "By the way, may I recommend pants? You wouldn't want people to make mistakes about your profession, after all." Stupid, I know, but I can't just swallow insults and pretend that I haven't been insulted. A girl has her dignity, after all.

The vampire snarls and lunges at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement as some other vampires —I think they're the bouncers— get ready to intervene. Bill, however, stops the female.

"This isn't over, bitch," she hisses. "You'll see."

The other three lead her away. I'm sure they don't want to cause trouble, especially not in front of the owner of the club. I don't really know what sort of hierarchy vampires have, but if I'm basing it on the human hierarchy, then the guy on the throne is definitely the top dog. Speaking of which, he's watching me. He's seen everything and I wonder if he's annoyed at me. Not only is his mind silent to me, I also can't read his expression. Then again, if he's as old as Bill says he is, then I suppose he's had plenty of time to practise hiding his feelings. You don't survive for long in the world if you don't learn to put on masks.

I down the rest of my drink and then order another. I need the liquid courage if I'm to do what I came here to do. I can't deny that Northman is very intimidating. He sits sprawled on his throne, his long leather encased legs stretched out in front of him. His leather vest is open, revealing his sculpted musculature to its best effect, with the tawny treasure trail leading downwards from his navel into his pants..._so_ not going there. His long hair golden hair is loose, although some of the front bits have been braided to keep it out of his face. He looks bored. I'd be bored too if I were in his place.

I make up my mind. Taking my second drink, I get up and make my way over to the dais. He's watching my every move with his unblinking eyes. It's rather unnerving, but I try not to let that show.

"Excuse me, Mr. Northman," I say in my most confident 'business' voice. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I don't believe we've met. I'm Sookie Stackhouse." The vampire in front of me looks powerful and probably _is_ very powerful. He reminds me...I don't know, perhaps of an alpha male lion in the Serengeti. The female vampire who was at the door comes up the dais and stands behind Northman's throne.

The giant blond vampire regards me in silence. Did I do something wrong in approaching him? I can't have. He hasn't kicked me away or anything. He analyzes me, so I analyze him. It's only fair, right? I estimate his height at about six foot five. He's a giant amongst men, and he must have been even more of a giant back in his time, because the average medieval knight is about five eight.

"Miss Stackhouse," he finally says. His voice is low and husky in a way that makes me weak in the knees. His English is slightly accented. He definitely isn't American. Hell, he was probably alive long before the existence of this nation. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He doesn't seem annoyed. More like...amused. "This is Pamela Ravenscroft, my business associate." He indicates the female vampire.

"We've met," says Ms. Ravenscroft. I nod at her. Northman invites me to sit down and has one of the waitresses bring up a chair. I thank him politely and perch on the edge of the chair with my ankles crossed.

"I must say, you do not strike me as the type who would frequent this sort of place," says the vampire.

"What type am I, then?" I say.

"You tell me," he says. "What brings you to Fangtasia, Miss Stackhouse?"

"I have a couple of questions I'd like to ask you, if that's all right," I say. There's been enough small talk already, and I really just want to get my answers and get out.

"No, I don't sparkle in the sun," he says.

"Uh...not that type of question." I take the pictures of Maudette and Dawn out of my purse. "Have you seen either of these girls?"

He takes the pictures from me. His hand dwarfs them. "I have," he says. It turns out he turned down Maudette because she was 'too pathetic'. Lovely man, that Eric Northman; very sensitive. Dawn, however, ended up as dinner. "I assure you, she was very happy and alive when she left. I have not seen her since."

"Do you know who Maudette was with?" I ask.

"Anyone who would have her," Ms. Ravenscroft replies. "Like Eric said, she was pathetic."

I ask a few more questions about the two girls and the patrons of the club, and then I 'hear' something. The thought is a lot more coherent than all the other thoughts, and it's the only thought that's not about sex.

"Mr. Northman, I think we should leave," I say.

"Leave?" he asks.

"There's an undercover cop, and one of the vampires have just taken a man into the toilets to bite him. I saw them." I didn't see anything actually, but I can hear the man. He's enjoying himself.

"How do you know this?"

"I'm very observant and I have good intuition."

He doesn't look as if he believes me entirely, but he's smart enough to delay the questions for now. He nods at Ms. Ravenscroft, who speeds off to do...something. I wonder briefly if some vampires are telepathic too and whether Northman just transmitted his thoughts. "Come with me," he says, leading me through the 'Staff Only' door to the exit at the back. I struggle to keep up with him in my heels. And then I'm not on my feet anymore. Instead, I'm being carried by one giant blond vampire with a very handsome face.

"What the hell are you doing?" I demand. "Put me down now!"

"I'm sure your...grandmother, is it?...will be very pleased to find your name splashed all over page six tomorrow morning," he says as he _does not _comply with my wishes.

"You know who I am?"

"You knew who I am. Why can't I know who you are?"

"Because you're _the_ Eric Northman."

He laughs. I know this is a little bit inappropriate, considering I just met him, but I like the way he laughs. It's loud and open and he's not holding it back. "I do love a bit of ego stroking," he says. "But you never told me how you knew me."

"Your picture was in the _Wall Street Journal_," I say. It was, and the tiny blurry pixelated image didn't do him any justice at all, but I'm not going to tell him that and stroke his ego further. It's big enough already, with all those women throwing themselves at him.

"I must say, you are full of surprises, Miss Stackhouse. However, there is one question I must ask you. How did you know that there was going to be raid? And don't tell me it's your intuition. I don't believe it."

I am stuck between a rock and a hard place. If I tell him...I don't want to know what will happen. If I lie to him, he will know, and I'm alone with him. If he wanted, he could snap my neck with two fingers. "I...can read minds," I whisper. He stops.

"You are a telepath?" he asks. He looks at me as if I'm a priceless artefact and he's the archaeologist who found me.

"I think I just said that," I mutter, wishing I'm anywhere else but here. "Can you put me down now? Please?"

"I will not hurt you," he says as he sets me gently on my feet. "You trusted me, and I will not betray that trust. Can you read _my _mind?"

I shake my head. "No," I say. "Vampire minds are silent to me, and I try to stay out of people's heads."

"You didn't this time."

"I was scanning for clues, and since you know who I am, you probably know why."

"You want to prove your brother's innocence. I can understand that. Did you find anything?"

It's a little strange to discuss business with a guy who's shirtless and wearing tight leather pants. I can't really get my head around the fact that he's a real businessman, and an impressive one at that. Again, it's the stereotypes. Businessmen, in my mind, wear designer suits and ties and pens in their jacket pockets. I don't think Northman's current outfit even has room for pockets. Actually, does it even have room for him? I risk glancing down and I regret doing so. No, his pants don't really fit him, and the...err...strain is really distracting. "I...um...no, I didn't," I say. "I think I should get home. It's late, and I don't want to make my Gran worry, what with everything that's happening with Jason and all."

He doesn't object and he even hails a cab for me, holding the door open for me as I climb in the backseat.

* * *

Soon after I get home, Bill calls me. He's heard about the raid on Fangtasia and he wants to make sure that I'm all right. I assure him that I'm fine, although I don't go into great detail about how I got out; I don't think he either wants or needs to hear about what transpired between Mr. Northman and me. I thank him for his concern and he apologizes for not being there. He still sounds like a gentleman, but what gentleman would actually leave the woman he was escorting? If he were a real gentleman, he'd have stayed even after I told him I'd be fine.

I decide to have a bubble bath to help myself relax. Hey, it may be a waste of water, but I think I deserve it after the traumatic events of tonight. I might not have gotten what I wanted —as in the name of the killer— but I tried. I fill the bathtub up and then add in my favourite bubble bath and then grab the historical romance that I'm in the middle of reading. I stay there until the water is lukewarm, and then towel off before slipping into a satin nightie that makes me feel very sexy.

You know how things tend to happen when you're least expecting them? Well, _I _wasn't expecting to see anyone peering in through the window of my seventieth storey penthouse, but as I'm climbing into bed, there he is, perched on the railing of the balcony outside my bedroom. The only way to reach that balcony is through my bedroom or, in this case, by flying.

I have to go and talk to him. For one, how on _earth_ does he know where I live? Secondly, what the hell is he doing here on my balcony in the middle of the night?

"I have business I need to discuss with you," he says as he gets off the rails and steps towards me after I open the sliding doors of my balcony to ask him why he's here. I don't, for a second, think that he's going to hurt me. If he wanted to hurt me, he had plenty of chances tonight, and he hasn't done anything except get me a cab. And try to peer up my skirt. Yes, I noticed that. I think he knows I know, and he just doesn't care. I resolve to wear pants the next time I see him, if there's a next time. And then I remember. I'm wearing a silk nightie with no bra, and he seems to be enjoying the view very much. I quickly cross my arms to ruin his view as much as I possibly can, short of diving under the duvet.

"What sort of business?" I ask.

"Your brother's business, for one," he says. "May I come in? It is a little awkward talking like this. If you don't want me walking in whenever I like, you can always rescind my invitation afterwards." Huh, I didn't know that. It's a handy little thing to know when dealing with vampires, and I'm surprised he told me. Perhaps I can trust him. With business, that is. I am not that sort of woman.

"Come in," I say, pulling the door further open. He's changed out of his strange gothic get up. Now he's in sweatpants, t-shirt and flip-flops. What is it with vampires and fashion faux pas? He catches me looking at his feet and he laughs.

"You and Pam are made of the same stuff. What is wrong with comfortable footwear?" he asks.

"It's possible to be comfortable without being sloppy," I tell him as I pull on a robe. He may feel comfortable talking business in flip flops, but I'm definitely not talking business in a silk nightie. He doesn't take his eyes off me as I lead him through to the living room and apologize for not having anything to offer him.

"It's fine," he says. "It's my fault for turning up unannounced."

I sit down opposite him. "So, Mr. Northman—" I begin.

"Eric," he says. "Call me Eric. Mr. Northman sounds so...stiff."

"We're discussing business," I say. "I'd prefer to keep things professional, if you don't mind."

"Of course, Miss Stackhouse." He inclines his head.

"You said you wanted to discuss my brother's business."

"I have a few questions for you."

"Well, you answered my questions, so it's only fair that I answer some of yours. Fire away."

"How did those women die?"

"Strangled; Maudette with her own hosiery and Dawn with her cell phone charger's cable."

"What does that tell you?" He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, making a tent with his fingers. I think he's testing me.

"I don't know," I say honestly.

"Were they drained of blood?"

"From what I saw in the detective's mind, no."

"Then it cannot have been a vampire. No vampire would waste so much fresh blood. The murder weapons suggest that the killer acted on a whim, using whatever he could find at that moment. That could indicate rage."

"But why would someone be angry enough to kill Maudette Pickens? She's harmless."

"Both women had been to Fangtasia and both had bite marks. Some people don't like the fact that some humans willingly offer themselves to vampires."

"So you're saying it's a hate crime against..." There is a word for those kinds of humans, but it's a really nasty word and I don't want to say it.

"Fangbangers," says Northman. "Or, if you like, we vampires call them donors."

"All right, so you're saying that it's a hate crime against donors?"

"It's just conjecture at this point," says the vampire. "But if I am right, then it is also, by extension, a hate crime against vampires. The murderer is too much of a coward to confront a vampire, and so he takes out his hate on those who associate themselves with vampires. I do not want to offend you, but I must ask; what is your brother's stance on vampires?"

Now, I know Jason isn't fond of vampires, but he would never ever kill anyone. I actually checked his head. I tell Northman so. "But the police have no idea who's responsible, so they're trying to pin it on Jason."

"There are no other clues? Links? DNA?"

"Not that I know of. Mr. Northman, is there a way to...?"

"Lure him out?" He raises an eyebrow at me.

"Yeah," I say. "I'll portray myself as the optimum choice of victim and get him to reveal himself."

"You know, when fishing, the bait never gets a happy ending, Miss Stackhouse. What are you going to do once you lure him out and he starts strangling you?"

"I'm Sookie Stackhouse. I'm sure I can find discreet twenty four hour protection, Mr. Northman. Remember, I can read minds, so I'll have that on my side."

"And your reputation?" He searches my face. "Remember, in order to be convincing, you will have to be like a real _donor_ in every way, at least in public. Human society is not kind to those people, especially not your strata of society."

"Jason's my brother. He might not be a great brother, but he's the only one I've got, and if giving up my good girl reputation can stop him from being punished for something he didn't do, then it's a path I'm willing to take." I keep my gaze steady. "Will you help me?"

"What if I say no?" he asks. Another test.

"I don't think you will say no. It doesn't benefit you at all if the killer keeps killing. You might think it's obvious that it's not a vampire who's responsible, but the general public will read about the fang marks and they'll immediately think that a vampire did it. I'm sure you don't need me to lay it all out on the table for you. It benefits the both of us if the real killer is caught."

"Very true, Miss Stackhouse. However, I'm surprised that you are asking me. We only met tonight. Logically speaking, you ought to be asking Bill Compton."

Yeah, the same Bill Compton who left me to go to a party with a bunch of uncivilized vampires. Like I'm going to trust him with something this important. He might make a nice partner for a dance or a conversation, but that's about it. Eric Northman, however, has been more or less honest with me. I'm not going to say that he's my friend, but I think I can trust him as a business partner, or a partner in crime, or whatever. Besides, he seems smarter than Bill. And taller. And stronger. And much better looking. All right, I'd better not go down that path.

"Bill's not the type for this kind of delicate operation," I say. "Do we have a deal, Mr. Northman?"

"On one condition," he says. "If we are going to put on this sort of show, then you must call me Eric."

* * *

I don't tell anyone about our plan. The fewer people who know, the better. I do, however, start looking for bodyguards who can trail me discreetly like ninjas by day and night. They're really rare, since bodyguards are meant to discourage murderers from coming after the people they're guarding, so discretion isn't something they're used to.

It turns out that North—I mean, Eric is having much better luck than me. After he left last night, he made a couple of phone calls, and voila, I have a team of ninjas. Well, werewolves. I'm supposed to meet them tonight at Fangtasia.

Yes, werewolves are real too. I'm beginning to wonder if every single creature from human mythology is actually real. The werewolves and shapeshifters, however, have continued to keep their existence a secret, unlike vampires. They don't see the need to reveal themselves to the human public. I respect that. People aren't very good at accepting what they don't understand. Usually, they're afraid of the unknown, and that fear turns into hate. These murders are proof of that.

I put a lot of thought into my outfit. I want to be professional, but I don't want to be boring. I settle on a pair of slim fit cream pants, a white suede blazer with draping on the front, a fitted sleeveless dove grey blouse, and a pair of black Alexander Wang ankle boots with killer heels and lots of gold buckles. I tie my hair back in a neat ponytail with a bit of hair hiding the hair tie, create a smoky eye —copper and gold this time— and apply nude lipstick, sucking on a finger afterwards to make sure that none gets on my teeth. To that, I add a large grey envelope clutch. My nails are painted in khaki —it's tough and elegant and fashion forward. With the sharp cuts and hardware and the khaki nails, I think I look like one of those powerful business women; kinda like a younger and edgier version of Gran, to be honest.

"Looking good, Miss Sookie," says Louis as I climb into the back of the car. "Are you going somewhere special tonight?"

"Business," I tell him. "Don't tell anyone."

"Not a soul," Louis promises as he pulls away from the curb. He gives me a slightly worried look when he sees that my destination is Fangtasia, but he's known me ever since I was a kid, so I think he understands that I'm not the type of girl who's interested in places like these. He promises to wait for me in the parking lot. Our shiny black Rolls Royce looks really out of place amongst all those battered convertibles...although there is a very nice-looking red Corvette parked right next to the back wall of the club.

"Eric's waiting for you in his office," Ms. Ravenscroft tells me as she eyes my outfit appreciatively. She's manning the door again. "Just go through the Staff Only door, first door on the left."

"Thanks, Ms. Ravenscroft."

"Pam," she says. "If you're on first name terms with Eric, then you might as well be on first name terms with me."


	3. If You Really Knew

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. They belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball, as I have used elements from both the books and the show.

**A/N: **Again, thanks to all my reviewers. Your comments inspire me!

**Chapter 3: If You Really Knew**

Eric's office is very tidy and organized. He's into minimalism, I can tell, and really big swords. One hangs on the wall behind his desk. His chair is one of those nice leather executive ones with the tall backs. He fills it up entirely. There's a bottle of Tabasco sauce on his desk, although I have no idea what it's for and I'm not sure I'd actually want the answer. There are two other guys inside with him, and together the three of them are probably taking up sixty percent of the space in the office. It's a good thing I'm not that big, even though I can't really say I'm that small.

The other two guys are introduced to me as Alcide Herveaux and Trey Dawson. Alcide is ruggedly handsome and his teeth are so white that he can probably get a gig doing toothpaste commercials, although I don't think a guy like him would see that as a legitimate way of making a living. He seems more like the 'live off his sweat' kind of guy, from what I could get out of his head, which is strangely impenetrable, like Sam's.

All of a sudden, it strikes me that Sam could be something supernatural too. Is he a werewolf? I make a note to ask him the next time I see him. Alcide's hand dwarf's mine as I shake it. His palms are rough. Just as I thought; someone who knows the meaning of physical labour. I don't know many guys like that. Trey is like that too, and I see traces of motor oil beneath his short blunt nails. He tells me that he's a mechanic. Alcide is in the construction business, but his family owes Eric, so he's taking this job as a way of repaying the debt. Trey is 'between jobs' at the moment so he's happy to find a source of revenue. It's not the first time he's done something like this. They, of course, know who I am, and Eric has told them that I'm his 'woman' —I don't think he remembers that we've been through the sexual revolution and the feminist movement— and that I need to be protected, but I can't go about doing what I normally do if people see that I have two burly bodyguards trailing me. They're buying his story. I can tell that they're worried for me. Me and my sanity.

"Herveaux and Dawson will watch you during the day," Eric says.

"And at night?" I ask.

"You'll be with me." Oh yes, that's right. I'm supposed to be dating slash having a sex with him. At least, that's what I want the murderer to hear. The truth won't be anything like that. Maybe a few movies, dinner (mine) and drinks (his). There will be absolutely no sex whatsoever. Sex usually complicates things in the worst way. I've witnessed enough scandals to know that. I just hope Eric knows it too.

I give the two werewolves my address and show them a way to get past security without being seen. I don't want anyone to know that they're with me. Besides, imagine the scandal that would break out if anyone finds out that I'm spending time with two good looking men who aren't listed as professional bodyguards. It's as if platonic friendships can't exist between the sexes.

"Well, that's that," Eric says once the werewolves have left. "I must ask you, however. Are you really certain you want to do this?"

"What, are you scared?" I ask.

"Me? I don't know the meaning of fear firsthand," he says. "And being seen with the granddaughter of Adele Stackhouse can only put my club in the media spotlight. You are the one with the most to lose, Miss Stackhouse."

"Sookie," I say. "Since I'm using your first name, you should use mine."

"I thought you'd never ask," he says. "Well? Is it worth it, _Sookie_?" He rolls my name off his tongue as if tasting it.

"I'm keeping my brother out of jail, so yeah. It's worth it. Besides, they'll forget about me soon enough once I stop doing interesting things. You know how it is."

"I believe I have some idea." He leans forward. "Well, if you are sure about doing this, then we might as well start now, since you're here. That is, unless you have something else planned tonight."

"Is it going to hurt?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"When you bite me. Is it going to hurt?"

"It doesn't have to." He stands in one swift movement and is in front of me before I realize what's going on.

"We'll go to your apartment," he says. "I don't think you'll feel comfortable doing it here."

"My car's waiting outside," I say as he escorts me out. His hand is resting protectively on the small of my back, just as if he is really my boyfriend. It's a strange feeling. No one's ever been like this with me before. I can't say I don't like it, even if we're just pretending.

"Tell your driver to follow," he says. "If we're going to be convincing, then I should be driving you. You might as well get used it." The red Corvette turns out to be Eric's. I should have figured. He holds open the door for me once again as I get in. I'm really glad that I'm wearing pants tonight, or else he'd be getting a pretty good glimpse of my panties. I think he's a little disappointed about that, horny bastard.

Louis is alarmed that I'm getting a ride with a vampire, and to his credit, he still trusts that I know what I'm doing. Faith is a beautiful thing.

The Corvette purrs like a large cat as we navigate through the streets of New York City. It's as if it's still day, even the sunset was four hours ago. The streets are lit up by large flashing billboards and neon signs, and people are still scurrying to and fro like an army of ants, except ants don't need to have cell phones permanently attached to their ears. Skyscrapers stretch up like giant termite hills. When I think of New York City, I always think of ant nests.

Eric pulls into the underground parking lot. The security guard there lets him through without question, since I'm with him. He does seem surprised to see me with a guy, though, especially since that guy is the infamous Eric Northman. I see him trying to figure out things and he's already thinking of who to call. I'm banking on the human race's general love of gossip.

We pull into an empty reserved space next to my yellow Volkswagen. Eric seems amused by my choice of car. He is very easily amused. I suppose that's a good thing. Living for eternity would be absolute hell if you didn't have a healthy sense of humour. "Don't you say anything about my car," I tell him as he helps me out of his. "It's very chic, I'll have you know."

"I'll take your word for it," he says as he drapes an arm around my shoulders. I put mine around his waist. The security guard is still watching us, and we needed to continue to perform. It's rather pleasant, actually. His mind is completely silent, giving me a sort of peace that I usually don't feel when I'm around other people. I can relax around him and not be afraid that I'll suddenly stumble upon some private fantasy.

I admire him in the shiny reflective doors of the elevator. What? I'm a healthy heterosexual woman in my prime and Eric Northman is probably the epitome of masculine beauty...although I'm still having trouble choosing between him and one equally beautiful and sadly fictional elven prince from _The Lord of the Rings_. He's wearing black jeans, along with a well-fitting t-shirt and a sharply cut blazer. His hair has been braided in a long plait down his back. No flip flops. Maybe I got through to him last night.

"Well, how are we going to go about doing it?" I ask him once we're alone in my penthouse. I've dismissed the help for the night. It's not like I can't microwave my own frozen meals if the situation calls for it, and I do know how to wash a dish or two.

"You're nervous," he says. "You need to relax." He makes me sit down on my couch and kneels down in front of me to remove my shoes. His fingers brush against the sensitive arch of my foot. Slowly, his hands move up my calf. I can't deny that this feels good. Really excellent, actually. I slowly begin to loosen up. He manoeuvres himself so that he's sitting behind me. I allow him to remove my blazer. His hands are on my shoulders now, kneading them and loosening the knots in my tight muscles. I groan in pleasure and tilt my head to the side. He blows on the side of my neck gently. I feel his fingers on my skin, marking out the place where he's going to bite me. Then his soft lips are on my neck. Up until now, I had no idea that there are so many nerves in my body, and that they're all interconnected. Somehow, by just kissing my neck, he's making me feel tingly in other places.

"Do you trust me?" he whispers into my ear, right before he licks it.

"Mmm...yeah," I whisper. "Yeah. I do." I'm really impressed with myself. I can still talk.

I feel a little prick, like a static electricity shock on a dry summer's day. And then...

Now, I've had orgasms before. I might not have sex, but I do have...um...toys and I put them to good use. However, I've never felt anything that can compare to what I'm feeling now. No _wonder_ some people want vampires to bite them. Not that I'm going to make a habit out of this, mind you, just as I'm not going to make a regular habit out of eating an entire box of chocolate truffles in one go. I only do that during Valentine's Day when everyone's out on dates and I'm at home having rom-com marathons with Gran.

I scream his name as I reach the peak of pleasure. He withdraws his fangs and licks my neck. I just feel a dull throb where he bit me. No, it really didn't hurt at all. I reach up to touch the bite mark and find two raised bumps.

"That was..." I begin.

"Orgasmic?" he says as he wipes away a drop of blood —my blood— from his lips and licks his finger clean. He looks as if he enjoyed himself, perhaps a little too much. I don't want to get him addicted to me or anything. "I know. I heard." Yeah...it's a little embarrassing, but he treats it like it's an everyday occurrence. Perhaps it is, for him. There's an uncomfortable looking bulge in his jeans. I blush.

Yeah, I'm a virgin, and I'll admit I've never seen an erection firsthand, although I have seen them inside people's heads...which kind of makes me an expert because I've seen more than most people will ever see in their lifetime. Eric Northman, I can say, is a large man in every way possible. I'm even more unnerved when I see something vibrate in his pocket—my mind is in the gutter, after all, and it's hard to pull it out— but it's only his phone. He answers it with one short "What?" I suppose they didn't have phone etiquette back when he was human. I still can't really get my head around the fact that I'm collaborating with a former Viking.

"I need to go back to the club," he says. "My accountant wants to meet with me." He pauses. "Perhaps you should come."

"Why?" What have _I_ got to do with a meeting with his accountant? Do I know his accountant? I go through the list of accountants I know —quite a few, actually— to see if I remember anyone who works for a vampire. I come up blank.

"One, no one's going to see that bite mark on your neck if you stay at home and you'll have been bitten for no reason at all, and two, I need your help."

Well, his request is reasonable. He is helping me catch a serial killer, after all. However, I ask him why he needs my help, just in case it's some funny business that I can't afford to help him with. With businessmen, you never know. They are expert manipulators of people and it's best to be careful.

It turns out that sixty thousand dollars are missing from his company's legers, and whilst that amount is next to nothing for him —not nothing for me, because I can get twenty pairs of very nice shoes with that amount, or alternatively, ten designer frocks— he wants to know who's responsible, as he does not allow for embezzlement in his company, just like any other CEO, human or otherwise. I know my Gran would want to get to the bottom of something like this if it happened in Hale Industries, no matter how small the amount is.

I am, however, worried about what he will do to the perpetrators after I help him sniff them out. "We have our own ways," he says ominously.

"No, Eric," I say. "If you want me to help you with this, then you have to promise me that you won't impale them yourself."

"I prefer a sword."

"You know what I mean. I'll make you a deal. If you hand the responsible party over to human authorities, then I'll be your personal telepath."

"You would work for me? Why would I want that?"

"If you don't want it, then you wouldn't have asked for my help in the first place. I can be useful and you know it."

"What if the responsible party isn't human?"

"Then obviously the human authorities have no reason to intervene."

"I like the way you think, Sookie Stackhouse." He holds out his hand, and I look at him in confusion. "Don't you humans seal deals by shaking hands?"

"I thought vampires didn't shake hands," I say.

"It's an old habit, left over from the days when we had to keep our existence a secret," he says. "I think it's safe to shake hands these days."

"Deal," I say as I place my hand in his. His grip is firm and cool, and he holds onto my hand for just a split second too long.

* * *

I don't bother changing my clothes. I'm not here to blend in with the crowd. I'm here to say, "Hey, look at me! I'm with a vampire!" If a look just like any other 'donor', then the murderer might not notice me and target me specifically and instead go after some other girl who doesn't have my degree of protection.

"I thought you were taking the night off," Pam says to him when he arrives at Fangtasia with me in tow. "And Sookie, you must let me borrow that blazer sometime. I love it." Wow, Pam and I are on a clothes-borrowing basis now? Well, I suppose I could really use one more friend, although she hasn't quite made it onto that list yet. I mean, I've known her for...less than forty eight hours and exchanged approximately fifteen words with her. I'm not the kind who makes instant BFFs. Actually, I'm not sure anyone _can_ be instant BFFs.

"Pam, sixty thousand dollars are missing from the company legers," Eric says. "Do you know anything about that?"

"Your new friend inspired me to go online and replenish my wardrobe," Pam drawls in a bored voice. "I'll pay you back. You know that."

"What? No, I mean the _other_ sixty thousand dollars," says Eric. "And I'm not even going to ask what you bought."

"No, I don't know anything about the _other_ sixty thousand dollars, and I bought ten pairs of shoes, four handbags and six suits, plus a Cartier watch. There was a sale."

Eric rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, as if asking for strength. I notice that the relationship between him and Pam isn't really characteristic of a relationship between two business partners. They're more like brother and sister. "Just go and clear the club," he finally says. "Keep the staff here for questioning. I want the customers gone in two minutes."

Pam grins and her fangs drop. "I'm going to enjoy this," she says as she turns on her heel and strides out. I notice the flashing red soles and smile. Perhaps we have more in common than I can imagine. There is a lot of ruckus outside as Pam kicks the patrons out. I think she's doing some actual kicking, judging from the cries of pain, and I wonder why no one's ever sued these vampires for assault. Or perhaps they have, and no one knows about it because the vampires simply covered it up somehow. Or maybe this sort of violence is what people come to Fangtasia for.

In two minutes and thirty four seconds, Pam is back, with the bartender trailing her. I remember him from last night's visit. He's a Native American vampire with a face as rough as tree bark and slightly unbalanced eyes. The bartender is introduced to me as Long Shadow, and he's also a partial owner of Fangtasia. "What's going on, milord?" he asks. _Milord_? Seriously?

At that moment a balding paunchy man who's somewhere in his forties arrives. He must be Eric's accountant. The man stammers a greeting and even if I couldn't read his mind —and to be honest, he's broadcasting rather loudly— I would have known that he's nervous. Actually, he's about _this_ close to pissing his pants, excuse my language. "Bruce," says Eric, and I can see why the poor man is so terrified. This isn't the Eric I joked and planned with, and kind of flirted with. His entire demeanour's changed, even though he still looks the same. He's now a boss, a ruler. Maybe a king. He's definitely the king of this little kingdom. "You're late."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Northman," he stammers. "I got stuck in a traffic jam."

"Did you bring the files?" Eric asks. He's not interested in Bruce the Accountant's reasons for being late. Bruce withdraws a pile of folders from his suitcase and hands them over to Eric with both hands. Eric flips through them at an inhuman speed. The pages just look like a blur to me, but he seems to be absorbing the information. "And you have no idea where the money's gone?" he finally says to the terrified accountant, whose panic is almost peaking.

"N-no," he says. I know he's telling the truth, so I nod discreetly at Eric, who then dismisses Bruce. Long Shadow glances from the blond vampire to me and then looks back at the Viking again. He's noticed, and he's wondering why Eric trusts me. Pam brings in the waitresses one by one. They're all dressed in 'donor' uniforms, or what 'donors' think vampires like. The first waitress Eric interviews is a woman called Ginger. She's probably in her thirties, but I can't tell. Drug abuse and then constantly fluctuating weight have left her looking like a fifty year old without Botox. I frown. "Her mind has more holes than cheese cloth," I say. "By rights, she shouldn't even be able to function."

"Glamour," says Pam. I have no idea what that means, but Eric does. So does Long Shadow. I notice him shifting his stance. He folds his arms defensively. Whereas he was leaning against the doorframe before, he is now standing with his feet at shoulder width, as if getting ready for a fight. I've spent a while observing people's body language and matching their minute subconscious actions with their thoughts and feelings. That's how I entertain myself during parties when I don't have anyone to talk to. I'm sure that vampires can also read body language, perhaps better than I can, since they've been around for so long. However, if either Eric or Pam has noticed anything, they don't show it.

Ginger, despite the holes in her memory, does know something about the money. Someone's been telling her to deposit small amounts of cash into an account every week. She can't remember who. It's like someone's drilled that memory out of her head. I do find out that she's close to a fellow waitress called Belinda, and I ask to see her. Pam brings Belinda in. This woman's mind also has a few holes in it, although not as many as Ginger's.

"Belinda," I say. "Who's Ginger been with the most recently?"

I see the answer inside her mind before she even answers me, and really, judging by his earlier behaviour, I'm not surprised that it's him. What does surprise me is his sudden attack. I throw up an arm to protect myself as Long Shadow lunges at me, fangs bared and fingers curled into claws. His teeth tear into my arm as he snarls. I scream in pain and fear. For a moment, I really do believe that I'm going to be mauled to death by an angry vampire.

Suddenly, Long Shadow lets out a terrible scream. Blood gushes out of his mouth. I'm still screaming. Who knew I had such great lung capacity? I certainly didn't know until now. Some of his blood gets in my mouth as he disintegrates before my very eyes, and on top of me too. His remains pool on the clean linoleum floor and I look up to see Eric standing above me, a bloodied wooden stake still in his hand.

All the vampires present have their fangs out. I would be lying if I say I'm not terrified by the looks on Eric and Pam's faces. I mean, they look like they're about to dig into dessert or something, and I happen to be dessert. Eric recovers first. He's older, and his age has given him control. It's either that, or he really values me as a business partner and doesn't want someone to eat me. He pulls me to my feet. "You're covered in blood," he says, almost gleefully.

"No shit," I say, not _quite_ so gleefully. This is not turning out to be a good night for me. I intended to let _one_ vampire bite me, and then I end up getting two bites. The second bite looks more like a shark bite than a vampire bite, however. And to think that Long Shadow didn't mean to bite my arm. He was aiming for my neck.

What I'm not expecting him to do is grab me and kiss me right there and then. I mean, sit me down and pour me a stiff drink, sure. Get me to the hospital, definitely, but _kiss_ me? Mind you, Eric Northman is a pretty good kisser. He's had a thousand years to perfect his technique. I can only compare him to a few inexperienced boys, but it doesn't negate the fact that he is, indeed, excellent. Too bad my arm is hurting so badly that I can't enjoy it.

"Ow..." I say into his mouth as he accidentally bumps my arm. That seems to sober him up a little. His fangs are still out, but his eyes are returning to normal again. I can't say the same of Pam. She seems torn between being high on bloodshed and devastated about the unexpected demise of the white suede blazer that she so wanted to borrow.

"You've been hurt," he says. He almost sounds apologetic, but I might be hallucinating. "Did you swallow any of his blood?"

"He exploded on me, so yes, I did," I say. To be quite honest, now that I'm not fearing for my life, I'm just pissed off that my outfit is completely ruined. I really liked those pants, and that blazer, and the blouse. The only things that might be able to be salvaged are my bag —which was out of the explosion zone at the time— and my boots. I am never going to wear white when dealing with vampires ever again. Or any pale colours, for that matter.

"Do you feel any different?" he asks me. As a matter of fact, I do. Everything seems brighter, and the noises outside are clearer. I remember reading something about vampire blood in a magazine. Or maybe it was one of those anti-vampire flyers that we get in the mail from time to time. You know, the ones produced by the Fellowship of the Sun or Day or whatever they call themselves. Vampire blood is an illegal drug, and side effects include 'hallucination and immorality'. Well, that's what it said. I'm just quoting it. I say so to Eric. He throws back his head and roars in laughter. And no, I'm not hallucinating about that, no matter what that flyer might say.

"Hallucination, perhaps," he says. "But the use of the word 'immorality', I think, refers to an increased libido."

That does not sound good. I'm a telepathic virgin and I definitely don't have sex. Ever. It's going to make me horny and grumpy as hell.

"You're also going to experience enhanced senses," he continues. That explains the brighter colours and clearer sounds. "You'll be stronger, heal faster and your appearance will improve. You didn't ingest a lot, did you?"

"Just a couple of drops," I say.

"The effects will fade within a week or two, so you don't need to worry too much," he says. "And since Long Shadow is no more, you don't need to worry about him being able to sense you."

"What do you mean?"

"Consuming vampire blood allows the vampire to sense your emotions and your general location." Well, it's a good thing he told me, not that I was planning on drinking vampire blood. I think I'll stick to water, thanks.

Pam has finally managed to get her bloodlust under control, and she volunteers to take me to the bathroom to clean up. I definitely can't go home looking like I survived the Texan Chainsaw Massacre. That's not the rumour I want to spread. I'd give Gran a heart attack and God knows she has enough to worry about these days. I've always prided myself on not being the one who makes her worry.

"It's a pity about the blazer," Pam says with a sad sigh as she takes the poor mauled garment and puts it in a trash bag. "It really was lovely."

"It's a pity about my arm too," I say from inside the shower. She actually volunteered to come in and help me, that Pam, but I assured her that I could manage fine on my own.

"Your arm will heal," she says dismissively. "It's only a flesh wound, and you have Long Shadow's blood to speed things up. It's Eric that I'm worried about."

"Why?"

"Vampire business. He killed a vampire for a human. You wouldn't understand."

"Let's see..." I begin. "Vampires think that humans are walking meals, so you're saying Eric killed another vampire over the equivalent of a hamburger."

"You're more perceptive than I thought. I think I might actually be able to tolerate you," she says. "I'd say you're more of a prime steak, but the analogy is still accurate."

Should I be flattered that I'm a steak and not a hamburger? I dry off as best as I can without aggravating my arm, which Pam has cleaned and bandaged. Why vampires would need a first aid kit, I don't know. Perhaps it's not for them.

Pam's left me some clean clothes. There's a large men's dress shirt —Ralph Lauren— and a pair of clean panties with 'Fangtasia' written on the front. It came from the souvenir stall that sells all sorts of Fangtasia paraphernalia. I'm quite interested in the calendar myself, but I would die before I'd let Eric catch me looking at that sinful picture of him lounging naked on white bear skin. The shirt reaches my knees, and it smells like Eric. It probably is Eric's shirt. There's nothing I can do about my bra, so I just have to go without for now. I put my boots back on and head on out back to Eric's office, where Ginger and Belinda are cleaning up the last of Long Shadow. Eric's waiting for me. He's stripped off his bloody shirt and changed it for yet another Fangtasia t-shirt that stretches across his chest beautifully.

"Come on," he says. "Let's get you home. I think two bite marks are quite enough for our little show."

* * *

The paparazzi and their thirst for gossip do not fail us. As Eric pulls up in front of my building, there's a small crowd waiting for us. I'm blinded by the flashes of their cameras. Their thoughts and questions overwhelm me and I cling to Eric like he's my anchor. Actually, he is. His silent mind is soothing to me. All of a sudden, I'm no longer just Jason Stackhouse's sister and Adele Stackhouse's granddaughter. I'm Sookie Stackhouse, 'girlfriend' of vampire businessman Eric Northman.

This time, Eric lets the valet park his car as he escorts me up the steps. He has his arm around me, and he's fending off the cameras, although we both know that we need those pictures on page six in order to lure out the murderer. It's all just part of the act. We want our privacy. We have no comments to make. Blah blah blah, and so on and so forth.

I'm extremely relieved once I stumble through the doors of the elevator into my apartment. It's never looked so good before. "Sookie," says Eric as he helps me over to the couch. "I am sorry that you got hurt on my account. I should have been more careful." Then he grins. "Although, I must say, you look quite fetching in my shirt."

"Admit it," I tell him. "I look fetching no matter what I wear."

"That is true, and I imagine that you would look even more fetching if you wear nothing."

"Then you'll just have to keep on imagining, mister." I pause. "What's going to happen to you, since you've killed a vampire for a human?" He seems surprised that I would ask such a question.

"Well, I suppose I would have to pay a fine," he says at last. "Don't think too much about it, Sookie Stackhouse. You have a serial killer to catch, remember?"

* * *

Eric stays with me until dawn, even after I go to bed. No, he doesn't follow me into bed. He knows my boundaries and he's respecting them, and I'm grateful for that. Dawn is when Alcide and Trey start their shift as my ninja bodyguards. I do wake up for a little while just before dawn, and I hear the men discussing my guard detail in low voices. I have no doubt that Eric is giving the two werewolves last minute requests before he goes to sleep for the day. It is then that I make a mental note to ask him about 'glamour' tonight when he wakes up and comes to get me so we can continue our masquerade. There are so many things about vampires that I feel I ought to know if I'm going to be associating with them from now on.

I wake up to a barrage of phone calls the next morning. Arlene's calling, Tara's calling, Jason's calling —with a strange girl's phone, I might add— and even Mrs. Fortenberry is calling, although I think she just wants to get the gossip from the source. Gran, of course, doesn't call. She storms right up to my penthouse and shakes me awake.

"I hope you have a good explanation for this, young lady," she says as she shows me the paper. The picture of Eric and me is huge, and they've blown up the bite mark on my neck. The headline shouts, 'HEIRESS' FANGY FLING'. They're so creative.

I have no choice. "Gran," I say. "I don't see what the problem is."

"You don't see what the problem is? Sookie, you come home after twelve at night wearing a man's shirt and with fang marks on your neck, and _Eric Northman_ has his arm around you!"

"There's nothing wrong with him, Gran," I say as I sit up, making sure that my bandaged arm is hidden. "He's a nice guy and I like him." Well, that's sort of true. We're developing a strange partnership and I know I can trust him. He's not really that nice, but Gran doesn't need to know that. "I don't know what you have against him. It can't be because he's a vampire because you invited Bill Compton to your function."

"Well, Mr. Compton is a gentleman."

"Mr. Compton left early when he took me out for a drink and it was Eric who got me a cab and made sure I got home safely." I leave out the part about how he personally flew over to my balcony to make sure that I was fine.

"Oh," says Gran. "Well, that was very nice of him." She's obviously surprised. "It doesn't sound like something he'd do."

"Have you even met him?"

"You're right, Sookie. I am being a little too judgemental. I shouldn't believe everything I read in the papers." I pat Gran's hand comfortingly.

"He's been nothing but a gentleman," I say. You know, the type who likes to stare at my chest and tries to peer up my skirt. Once again, Gran does not need to know the details. "I know what I'm doing, Gran. Even if you don't trust him, you should trust me."

"Very well," says Gran. "I will trust you. However, I want to meet this Mr. Northman."


	4. Red Omen

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. They belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball, as I have used elements from both the books and the shows.

**A/N: **Thanks for all the great reviews and supportive comments! Your feedback means so much to me.

**Chapter 4: Red Omen**

The paparazzi make camp outside my building and pester everyone who comes out through the front door, even the deliverymen. So far, it's all going according to plan. I research all the brands to find out which one vampires like the most. After all, if there are going to be vampires in my life, then I want to be able to offer them something if they come by. Granted, I did offer Eric a drink of Sookie last night, but I don't count that as being genuine southern hospitality.

There's something called 'Royalty Blended' but that has to be specially pre-ordered and you need to wait for a month. It also costs something like thirty thousand dollars per bottle because it's a blend of blood donated by real life royalty and the highest quality synthetic blood. I don't see why it's going to be better than normal blended blood. I mean, I refuse to believe that the biological make up of royalty is better than the biological make up of any other person, provided that they are healthy. Sookie Stackhouse is a great believer of meritocracy.

Finally, I send Norma Jean, my housekeeper, out to pick up half a dozen bottles of a blend that uses paid donors who have to observe a strict diet. It has received pretty good reviews from tech savvy vampires who have bothered to leave comments. One does have to be careful when purchasing foodstuffs. Some of the cheaper brands of blended blood use infected blood donors and stingy vampires have contracted something called 'Hep D' from drinking those brands. I find out that there's a huge lawsuit going on between the infected vampires and the company.

Once Norma Jean's gone, I finally get dressed. There's no way I'm going to let people see the huge bandage on my arm, although granted, now that I'm a celebrity simply because I'm 'dating' _the _Eric Northman, if I go out with a huge bandage on my arm, that might become the newest hot accessory. It will cast serious doubt on my fashion credentials, so I don't try it.

I opt for a nude long-sleeved button up silk shirt by Chloé and black leather panty-skimming shorts. I paint my nails a deep red —blood red— and put on lipstick to match. I can be vampy without being tacky. I add a gold Cartier necklace with diamonds and pearls to draw attention to my neck, and put gold and pearl studs in my ears. For shoes, I choose a pair of metallic python sandals in pewter from Gucci with a five inch heel. The straps overlap one another down the middle like plate armour. I grab my white quilted Chanel bag with a gold chain shoulder strap and put on a pair of Prada sunnies. Nothing screams 'Celebrity! Look at me!' like a pair of oversized sunglasses.

As I select a perfume from my collection, I notice a note propped up against my bottle of Gucci Envy. "Dinner tonight," it says. "I'll be here at 6:30." It's signed with a large 'E'. There's no mistaking who left it there for me. His handwriting is strong and graceful and beautiful, just like his person. I tuck the note into my purse, and try not to swoon. He's just my partner in this venture, and maybe my friend; nothing more and nothing less.

Louis waits for me in front of the building instead of in the underground parking lot the way he usually does. He's confused as hell, but the good thing about Louis is that he doesn't ask questions that he knows I don't want to answer. I push my way through the throngs of paparazzi with their cameras and microphones. Many prominent people have already made statements about my 'relationship', either defending my right to date whomever I please or condemning me for betraying the human race through such unnatural, depraved and sordid acts.

I can sense that my two werewolf guards are trailing me, and I feel better for it. Nothing is likely to happen in the streets during broad daylight, but you never know.

My first stop is Merlotte's. Since Dawn was the second victim, there is a chance that someone found out about her one night stand with Eric here. If that person is here right now, then I'll probably trigger some thoughts with the bite mark on my neck.

"Sookie, what the hell?" Sam says as I enter. "Are you crazy?"

"It's none of your business, Sam," I say. Now _he's_ judging me too? I've had enough judging this morning from Arlene and Jason and Mrs. Fortenberry. Jason actually called me by that bad word they use for 'donors'. Arlene told me I'm going to go to hell. Tara was just worried that I've sustained some brain damage somehow.

"How is it not my business? I'm your friend, for God's sake, and you're throwing yourself headfirst into a snake pit! Have you forgotten what he is or who he is? He isn't just any vampire. He's _Eric Northman_."

"I'm quite aware of who he is, Sam Merlotte," I say. "I'm the one who's dating him."

"What's going on with you, Cher?" he asks me, his eyes boring into mine as if he's willing himself to be able to read my thoughts. "This isn't like you."

"Perhaps this is the new me," I say. It's hard to be convincing, especially since I'm scanning minds at the same time. "Maybe I'm just bored and he's the change I need to bring me out of this mundaneness." I can sense a lot of anger coming from Sam, and a lot of hurt too. It's gotta be hard for him, seeing the girl he fancies dating someone else, especially if he doesn't like that someone else.

He suddenly reaches out and grabs me by both shoulders so hard that I'm afraid that he's bruising me. "You're making a huge mistake, Sookie Stackhouse." He's almost growling. Everyone is watching us, and I can see their minds making the connections.

"Then it's my mistake to make," I say as I shake him off. No, I haven't found anything, even though Sam's rage is alarming. However, I refuse to believe that he is capable of killing innocent people just because he doesn't like who they're sleeping with.

I leave without any results, and I'm afraid I might have damaged a friendship. The rest of my day, I spend at Saks Fifth Avenue. Poor werewolves. I don't think they signed up for three hours of shoe shopping, and it's only the first days. I cast out my thoughts. Apart from the women analyzing shoes, and my guards' absolute boredom as they wait outside for me to come out —Alcide's betting that I'll be in here for two hours tops, and Trey's betting that I'll be over two and a half hours; I think Trey's gonna win— I don't sense anything. I spot a pair of gorgeous towering Yves Saint Laurent platform pumps in magenta suede and I just have to have them. I wasn't really planning on buying anything, but what the heck. I need some cheering up and my friend's aren't here for me right now.

The sun is setting as I come out of Saks, swinging my bag of purchases and feeling much better. Louis has finished his book —he's learned to take reading material with him at all times— and Alcide and Trey are relieved. I spot them about fifty feet away. Alcide is handing over his money to Trey, although both of them are just relieved that if I'm gonna do anymore shopping, it's Eric who'll have to accompany me. Granted, if I'm going on an after dark shopping spree, I think he'll just send Pam with me. The haters don't care which vampire I'm with as long as I'm with a vampire. It'll create even more waves, I wager. A vampire human liaison is one thing. A lesbian vampire human liaison is on a whole new level of anathema.

I check my phone. It's five thirty. An hour doesn't leave me much time to get ready and plan my outfit. I need something that can hide my bandage. Luckily, I've installed one of those apps on my phone which allows me to organize my wardrobe. Every item in my wardrobe is recorded on my phone. I rummage through it. Most of my fancy dresses don't have sleeves. If you're going to go to a party, you wanna show some skin, right? And even if they do have sleeves, they're usually tight, which won't do for tonight either because I don't want everyone to see the lumpy outline of the bandage under my sleeve.

Finally, I do find something. It's a silver Marchesa dress covered in sequins and beads with tassel trimmed sleeves. The hemline hits mid thigh, making up for the covered arms and high neckline. The waist is cinched by a belt that looks a little like a curtain rope, but it works, or so I think.

I arrive back at home with thirty minutes to spare. Just as I'm about to get in the shower, my phone rings, and the caller ID says that it's Bill. Oh, boy.

"I'm sorry, Bill," I say when I answer the phone. "I'm kind of in a hurry right now—"

"Sookie, what do you think you're doing?" he demands. Well, that's just rude. He didn't even say 'hello' or 'good evening'. In fact, it's worse than Eric's 'What?'.

"Not that it's any of your business, Mr. Compton," I say coolly, "but I find that I rather enjoy Mr. Northman's company."

"You know, I thought you were different from all the other girls, Sookie," he says. I'm so glad he's on the phone and not in the same room with me. If tones of voice can kill, then I'd have been dead a couple of seconds ago. "I thought you were pure, gracious, sensible. It turns out you're worse. You're with one man one night and the next night you're fucking another."

"Mr. Compton, I'll have you remember that I am a lady and I will not stand for that kind of language," I say sharply. "I demand an apology."

"Me? Apologize? You were with _me,_ and then you just spread your legs for him?"

"Well, if I'm so bad, then shouldn't you be happy that I'm not with you? And, for your information, William Compton, I was never with you." I thought that Bill and I could be friends, but now I've changed my mind. I hang up on Bill before he can say anything else nasty to me.

I've just gotten out of the shower and wrapped my robe around myself when the doorman announces that Mr. Northman has arrived. I tell Ivan the Doorman to let Eric up.

"You are not wearing that," Eric says when he sees the dress I've chosen laid out on my bed.

"Why not?" I snap. Who is _he_ to tell me what to wear and what not to wear? It's not as if Mr. Sweatpants-and-Flip-Flops is a fashion guru. All right, if given the choice, I wouldn't have worn this dress either, but I don't really have a choice. His business partner ripped a chunk out of my arm last night. All right, I didn't mean to snap at him, but Bill's call, plus the other calls I got in the morning, have put me in a kind of mood that even a hot pair of new designer heels can't really fix.

"Sookie, is something wrong?" he asks.

At his concerned tone, the fire leaves me, and I flop onto the bed, feeling drained of energy. "Nothing really," I say as I rub my temples. "It's just that people are so judgemental. I expected some backlash, but not from my closest friends. I mean, Jason probably sleeps with a different girl every night, and he called _me_ a...a fangbanging whore, and then there's Arlene. Who's been the one comforting her every time a relationship or marriage fails? And then she turns around and tells me I'm going to hell just because I've found someone who doesn't fit her image of what a partner should be? Who's she to judge anyway? It's not as if the men she's chosen have been any good."

To his credit, Eric lets me go on until I run out of words and breath. Maybe he zoned out for most of my rant, but I don't really care. At least he let me rant. It's therapeutic. "Sookie," he says when I'm done. "You're under a lot of pressure, but you're not going to feel any better if you dress like a forty year old matron. Pam tells me that looking good is the key to feeling good."

"In case you can't remember, I have an ugly bandage on my arm."

"Let me see it."

I roll up the sleeve of my robe to show him my arm. He slowly unwinds the bandage. The wound is still red and ugly, but it's healing a lot quicker than I thought it would. I have no idea what he's going to do about it, and I definitely didn't expect him to bite his wrist and then drip the blood onto my arm before rubbing it into the wound. The flesh knits together before my eyes. His blood is some sort of miracle healing elixir. I gape, unable to comment.

"It would have been better if you had drunken my blood, but from what I understand, you wouldn't like it if I could feel your every emotion," he says. The wounds on his wrist have already closed. "Granted, that could be useful, since we are going after a serial killer. I would know when you are in danger."

"Yeah, you're right," I say. "I wouldn't like it if you could sense my emotions, and I'm pretty sure you wouldn't enjoy sensing them when I'm PMSing."

"Probably not," he agrees. "I've heard that PMS is now a defence for murder."

"I think you'd like the other side effect even less," he continues. He's grinning so widely that I _know_ he's up to something. "A human who drinks the blood of a vampire will feel sexual attraction towards that vampire, and since you have said so many times that you are not going to have sex with me —your loss— I think that will make you very grumpy."

"Oh, most definitely," I agree. "Well, thanks for telling me, and for helping me."

"You're welcome," he says as he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. It's a strangely intimate act and I'm not really sure how I feel about it. No one outside of my family has ever done it to me before. "Now go find something else to wear, little telepath."

"All right, big vampire," I say as I turn on my heel and return to my bedroom. I zip myself into a champagne coloured cocktail dress with a black lace overlay. It has a relatively high neckline, as far as cocktail dresses go, but the full skirt is rather short and shows off a lot of leg. It's either legs or cleavage. Not both. That's just trashy.

I don't have to accessorize a lot with such an eye-catching dress, so I put on a pair of diamond studs and add a classic gold Cartier watch. I like gold a lot. It looks great against my skin tone and I have a lot of gold accessories. I slip my feet into a pair of patent black Louboutin pumps and select yet another black satin Alexander McQueen clutch from my rather large collection of Alexander McQueen clutches—who doesn't like the genius of McQueen? This one has rings for my fingers to go through, and the rings are embellished with gold flowers. I twist my hair into a loose chignon with a few escaping wisps, and then I'm ready.

Eric grins when he sees me. "That's more like it," he says, offering me his arm. "Shall we, ma'am?"

There is a technique to getting in a car with a low seat without flashing, and I, as the granddaughter of Adele Stackhouse, have mastered it, although it is not an easy manoeuvre. You just have to sit down sideways first, with your legs hanging out of the car, and once you're seated, you swing your legs inside the car with your knees together. Eric's impressed that I manage it, although he seems a little disappointed that he doesn't get to see my underwear.

"Sorry," I say with a shrug, not feeling sorry at all.

"I _will_ get to see them one day," he says as he gets in the other side and starts up the engine.

"Keep dreaming," I say.

* * *

He takes me to a lovely, large and very famous restaurant. I've been here, of course. I've been to just about any eatery worth eating at in New York City. The last time I ate here was on my eighteenth birthday. That was a while ago. The paparazzi, of course, have followed us here. It's not so hard to identify Eric's red Corvette, which is exactly why he's driving me around in it. Anonymity is not our goal. The security guards at the restaurant fend the photographers off as they swarm up the steps after us. They're used to it, the security guards. Lots of famous people like to dine here.

"I didn't know they served vampires here," I whisper to Eric as we sit down inside one of the private rooms in the back. The photographers have seen us go inside, so they can assume...whatever.

"It's just good business," he says as he hands me the menu. "Rich vampires sometimes like entertaining their pets at fancy restaurants, just like rich human men." Pets do not refer to gerbils or cats in this context. I know he's talking about humans.

"Do you speak from experience?" I ask as I peruse the menu. I already know what I want. The roasted duck breast with honey orange glaze is to die for. I select a sauvignon blanc from New Zealand to go with my meal. That small country in the Pacific does, arguably, produce some of the finest sauvignon blanc in the world. I am no expert on wine, but I do like its tartness. Gran says I can be just as tart sometimes, if I want to. I think it's a compliment about my temperament. Who wants to be a saccharine pushover?

"Yes," he says as he leans back and puts his hands behind his head. "I enjoy the finer things in life when I can get them, although I can also enjoy the small things."

"You enjoy life in general."

"If I didn't, I'd have met the sun. There is no point in living for eternity if you don't want to live."

My salad arrives; tomato with Mozzarella Di Buffala —that's mozzarella cheese made with buffalo milk— and black truffle pesto. It's delicious, of course. I mean, truffle pesto and cheese; you can't go wrong with that. Eric's ordered a large bottle of blended blood —sourced from donors who eat only organic food— and he seems to be enjoying it, although he informs me that it can't compare to my blood. "You know, when our masquerade ends, I think I'm going to miss that," he says.

I don't really know what to say in response. 'Thank you for complimenting my blood, and enjoy it while you can,'? Just doesn't seem appropriate. He seems to know that too, and he asks me about my food.

"It doesn't bother you, watching me eat?" I ask.

"Why should it? You need to eat, just as I need to drink blood," he replies.

"Bill doesn't seem to like it," I say.

"I am not Bill Compton."

"No, you're not," I agree. Bill Compton is a false gentleman and a total douche. Thinking about Bill makes me remember how Gran put him next to me at the function, which brings me to the conversation Gran and I had this morning about Eric. "Eric, my Gran saw our picture in the paper this morning." He pauses in the middle of picking up his champagne flute full of blood. "She wants to meet you."

"She does not have a problem with you seeing the notorious Eric Northman?" He takes a sip of his blood; the perfect picture of calmness. Most boyfriends would not be so calm at the prospect of meeting his girlfriend's family. Then again, he's not actually my boyfriend.

"Well, she wasn't pleased, but she trusts me."

The waiter takes away my empty salad plate and sets my duck in front of me. I cut into the succulent meat, cooked to perfection. I'll take duck over prime steak any day. The meat just about melts in my mouth and I moan in pleasure. Eric drop his fangs.

"Is there something wrong?" I ask immediately.

"What? No."

"Your fangs are out." He retracts them immediately.

"Our fangs come out whenever we're feeling strong emotions, or arousal," says Eric. "It doesn't only mean anger. So...when does your grandmother want to meet me?"

"Whenever you are both free, I suppose," I reply. "She didn't exactly give me any detailed instructions." I think about it. Gran and I always spend our weekends at our house in the Hamptons. That's about the only time that she isn't in a meeting or something. Being in charge of a large corporation like Hale Industries doesn't exactly give her a lot of free time. Jason used to come with us, but after he turned seventeen, he started spending all his time either with his friends at the bars and nightclubs or in other girls' apartments.

Eric and I agree on Saturday evening. He's going to drive me up to the Hamptons. Gran can take my car. Usually I drive her —weekends are chauffeur-free— but I don't think she'll mind driving herself. Like me, she enjoys the independence.

"What about Fangtasia?" I ask.

"Pam can take care of the club," he says. "If there's anything she can't deal with, she can call me. Business has become much easier ever since cell phones have become commonplace." I can't disagree with that, although I do put forward an argument in favour of the traditional pen and paper.

It's hard to believe how easy it is to talk to Eric. I forget that he's a cutthroat businessman. I forget that he's a thousand year old vampire. I forget that he's a former Viking who's raided monasteries. He's just a funny, smart guy who's seen a lot and done a lot, and he has a lot of charisma. He explains the concept of 'glamour' to me when I ask him. "It's how we've survived undetected for so long," he says. "Otherwise, we'd have been persecuted to the ends of the world long ago."

"What's it like, being glamoured? Does it hurt? When I read Ginger's mind, it looked as if someone had taken a drill to her head."

"If a human has been glamoured too much, they become completely dysfunctional. Ginger is close to reaching that stage."

"Can glamour me?" I need to understand how this works. Maybe there is a way to protect oneself from being glamoured. It would be a handy trick to know when dealing with vampires.

"You actually trust that I won't make you do something inappropriate?" he asks mischievously.

"If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't be here," I say. "So bring it on."

He stares into my eyes. I feel a sort of prickling sensation inside my head, as if there's cold water running under my scalp. Pressure is building up behind my eyes. I'm getting a headache. "Raise your arms, Sookie," Eric commands.

"Why?" I ask. "Is that going to help?"

The pressure stops. "No," he says. "That's what I'm trying to glamour you into doing. You didn't feel anything? You didn't feel compelled to obey me?"

"You were giving me a headache, that's all," I say.

"This is most curious," he muses. "Don't tell anyone that you can't be glamoured. I might not feel threatened, but others might."

"What about Pam?" I ask.

"You can trust Pam with anything you trust me with," he says. "She won't betray me."

"Are you related or something?"

"Something like that. I made her vampire."

"You _killed_ her?" And she likes him? That's gotta be one strange relationship. Granted, my 'relationship' with Eric is pretty strange too. He's just a guy I randomly partnered up with. I still don't know why I asked him to help and not someone else. What is it about him that makes me trust him?

"I prefer to say that I gave her a new life," he says. "If you are so curious, you should ask her. This is not my story to tell."

I'm definitely going to ask Pam about this. For one, how is a vampire created? Where did the first vampire come from? There are so many questions, but this isn't the right time to ask them. I have to concentrate on catching that murderer before he strikes again. Why hasn't he attacked me? Maudette and Dawn died within three days of one another. Has he not noticed me yet? Is he too afraid to attack me because my family is so prominent?

* * *

I can't remember a time when I haven't been behind the wheel on the drive to the Hamptons ever since I got my licence. Sometimes, Gran and I argue over who gets to drive. I always win. The wind scrapes my hair away from my face as it blows in through the open window, and I'm clutching onto my seatbelt for dear life. This is the first time I've experienced Eric's driving outside of the congested streets of New York, and he has a complete disregard for speed limits.

I screech as he rounds a corner so quickly that the car must be sailing through it on two wheels. He just laughs at me. He's been laughing at me ever since we got onto the highway and he started pressing his foot to the floor. "You're mean, you know," I mumble as he pulls up outside our weekend house. It's a very traditional looking American home, with a wooden porch out front. It's painted in white and a pale grey, and there are lots of large trees surrounding it. A swing hangs from one of the trees; remnants of my childhood. I remember trying to swing as high as I can possibly go and then being scared when I fly so high that I fall out of the seat for just a split second as the swing reaches the highest point of its trajectory.

Before my parents died, we spent our weekends here together as well. Gran just carried on the tradition after they died. My father once told me that he'd catch me if I ever fell out of the swing. I feel a pang of sadness as that memory flashes across my mind; he's not here to catch me now.

Light pours out of the kitchen window and spills onto the lawn. Immediately, I'm on my guard. I can't sense Gran, and she would never leave lights on in an empty house. I grip Eric's arm. "Something's wrong," I whisper. He pushes me behind him as he sniffs the air, although he doesn't let go of me. His nostrils flare. With me still holding onto his hand from behind, he makes his way up the porch. The door is unlocked, but he can't enter without an invitation.

"Come in," I whisper. I might not have been inside the house, but it doesn't matter to whatever it is that keeps uninvited vampires from entering human dwellings. The invisible force field that's keeping him out disappears. He pushes the door open with his foot. The hinges are well oiled, and the door doesn't make a sound. The house is silent, save for the noises that wooden houses make at night as the wood contracts in the cooler temperatures. I see the silhouettes of furniture. A lamp has been knocked over. Dread grows inside me and forms a knot in my stomach.

"Sookie," Eric says in a low voice. He's stopped in the doorway of the kitchen and his broad back is blocking my view. All I can see is my Gran's hand lying still on the tile floor, her soft papery skin smeared with red. My heart rate becomes so fast that it sounds just like a roar to me. My vision blurs and is obscured by static as blood rushes into my head. I hear a scream. It sounds so far away that it takes a few seconds for me to realize that I'm the one screaming.


	5. Goodbye Is All We Have

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. They belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball.

**A/N: **Thanks for all the wonderful reviews! This chapter was quite difficult for me to write, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. By the way, would anyone be interested in seeing Sookie's outfits (and sometimes Tara's and Pam's)?

**Chapter 5: Goodbye Is All We Have**

Medical personnel rush past me. They got here ten minutes after Eric made the call. I was too hysterical to do it. I don't know what I would have done without him. Against all odds, Gran still had a pulse when we found her lying there on the kitchen floor in a pool of her own blood. We may have cheated death when Eric fed her some of his blood, but only a little. We didn't know how badly she was hurt, and I don't think she would have wanted to become a vampire, which could have happened if Eric gave her too much blood.

They rush her to the hospital. I ride in the back of the ambulance with her, willing her to live. Eric is going to meet us there. He volunteered to stay behind to answer what questions the detectives may have. It's going to be a long night. Gran is rushed into the operating theatre. I sit outside in one of the hard plastic chairs, waiting, and waiting. The sharp smell of antiseptic surrounds me. I'm not very familiar with it as I've never had any reason to visit the hospital. The only time I can recall being in a hospital is when Jason broke his arm when he was seven.

I call Jason, but he doesn't answer his phone. I call Tara, who's spent more time with us than in her own house. Gran's like her grandmother too. She promises to come over immediately. Then I stare at the phone and realize that there isn't anyone else to call.

Eric arrives at the hospital. He doesn't say anything, but he does hand me a hot cup of coffee and watches me to make sure that I drink all of it. I don't really taste anything, but the warmth is comforting. I've been feeling cold tonight. He waits with me in the hospital waiting room until it's almost dawn. His presence is soothing, and I seek solace in his mental silence. I am extremely grateful. He doesn't have to do this. This isn't what he signed up for when he agreed to help me. He tells me not to worry.

Tara arrives just before Eric has to leave. He's stayed as long as he possibly can. "Oh my God, Sook," she says as she rushes over to hug me. "How is she?" I shake my head. I have no idea. I'm not sure if I want to know the diagnosis.

"Take care of her," Eric says to Tara. "Make sure she eats something." Tara nods. She's thinking that maybe he's not so bad for me after all.

It's seven in the morning when I find out that Gran sustained a serious head injury from blunt-force trauma. They're surprised that she survived long enough for medical aid to arrive. The doctors take me aside to explain that it's unlikely she'll ever wake up. I have to make the decision. Do I put Gran on life support and let her continue her existence, neither dead nor alive, or do I simply let her pass on?

What sort of question is that to ask someone's granddaughter? But I can see that the doctors are feeling awful about it too. It's not their fault. Medical science might have advanced in leaps and bounds since the nineteenth century, but doctors are doctors, not miracle workers. I decide to put Gran on life support. Miracles do happen, right? I've read about people in vegetative states suddenly waking up years later.

Gran looks so small in the hospital bed, with all the tubes and electrodes attached to her. An oxygen mask covers most of her face and her head is wrapped up in bandages. They've cut her hair away so they can operate. I sense nothing from her. Nothing at all. It's as if she's not there. She doesn't even look like Gran.

Tara manages to pry me away from Gran's bedside and drag me to the hospital cafeteria. I feel sick at the thought of food, but she makes sure that I get something in my stomach. I haven't eaten since lunch the day before. The food does make me feel a little better physically.

Louis arrives to take me home. At first, I adamantly refuse. However, Tara's even more stubborn than me, and she's not half as nice. She makes me go home to shower and sleep, promising to keep watch over Gran whilst I'm away. She also promises to keep calling Jason until he answers his phone.

I must have fallen asleep inside the car, because the next thing I know, I'm in my bed. Someone's removed my shoes, although I'm still dressed. My mouth tastes like three day old dirty socks and my face is so dry that I can almost imagine it cracking like the surface of a dried lake bed during a drought. I barely feel human.

The thought of Gran makes me drag myself out of bed and into the shower. I brush my teeth for five minutes to get rid of the taste and then wash away yesterday's dirt and grime. Gran always said that a lady must look respectable no matter what she's feeling, so even if I feel like crap, I can't look like crap. Besides, looking like crap will only make me feel worse. I put on a cotton printed t-shirt, a pair of comfortable light grey, a charcoal grey Hugo Boss men's blazer that I wear with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of chocolate quilted lace-up Chanel hiking boots with faux fur at the top and a low block heel. Maybe I don't look a million dollars, but I'm presentable. I brush out my hair and tie it back in a messy ponytail. There, all done. I'm ready to go back to the hospital.

I find Eric waiting for me in the living room. Norma Jean is terrified of him and is keeping as far away from him as possible. I catch her thinking that it's unnatural to want to sleep with someone dead, but I don't care enough right now to do something about her. "Has there been any new developments?" I ask.

"Not that I know of," he says.

I feel so awful. It's my fault. I know it is. If only I hadn't come up with this plan to lure out the murderer. If only I hadn't underestimated the murderer. If only I had thought to hire protection for Gran. I burst into tears. It's all too late now. Too late. I feel strong arms encircling me, and I find myself sobbing into a very nice silk cotton blend shirt. Eric's chest is solid and cool, like a rock anchoring me to reality.

"It's all because of me," I sob. "I'm to blame."

"Sookie, stop it," he says. His voice vibrates in his chest in a pleasant way. "This is not your fault. You didn't know that the murderer would come after your grandmother. _He's_ the only one to blame."

I'm not convinced, but I don't say anything. Eric gets me to the hospital in twenty five minutes. He's using his grey BMW this time, knowing that I'd appreciate the anonymity. I'm not ready to confront the army of paparazzi just yet.

Gran still looks the same as she did yesterday. We relieve Tara of her bedside duty. She's exhausted, and as she says goodbye, I catch her and Eric exchanging a look. They're collaborating to keep me functional. I'm not sure whether I should be angry that they're keeping things from me or just glad that they're kind of getting along because of me. Eric waits outside as I go in to sit with Gran.

"Hey Gran," I whisper. She's in one of those shapeless mint green hospital gowns. If she could see herself right now, she'd have a fit. I reach out to take her hand, careful not to disturb the tube that's attached to it. I talk to her even though she can't hear me. It's really strange to sit in silence. Talking is therapeutic. I apologize over and over again. Despite what Eric said to me earlier —he did make a lot of sense— I can't stop blaming myself.

And then her eyes open without any warning, giving me a hell of a shock.

'_Sookie, what are you apologizing for?'_

I start. Did I just...? I look at Gran. Her face hasn't changed one bit, but... "Gran?" I whisper. "Can you hear me?"

'_Yes, sweetheart.' _She blinks.

For a moment, I can't speak. My Gran is still here, no matter what they say. The monitor starts beeping. The electrodes attached to her head are sending signals to the machine. They're detecting her thoughts too.

Doctors and nurses run in. They make note of the information on the monitors. They check Gran's heart rate. They pry her eyes open and shine lights into them. "Your grandmother is conscious, Miss Stackhouse," the head neurologist tells me. Yes, I knew that already.

"Is she going to recover?" I ask.

"It's hard to tell at this stage," says Doctor Hogan, "but it is a possibility. She is regaining some motor control, and her cognitive functions are fine."

Gran's getting annoyed with all the prodding and poking. She's even more annoyed that she can't move, and she can't remember how she ended up this way. Everyone thinks Adele Stackhouse is just a lovely old woman, but very few know that she has a bit of a temper on her. I'm one of the few. Finally, the doctors leave her alone, and I explain the events of last night to her. She's alarmed at what happened, but she's relieved that it's not me. Then she tells me to pull myself together and stop crying. It's not my fault I fell in love with a vampire, now, is it?

I wonder whether I should come clean to her about our plan, but she reminds me that Eric has a meeting with her, and just because she has no motor control doesn't mean he's allowed to skip. Really, Gran with no motor control is scarier than Gran with motor control. I go outside to fetch Eric, and explain that Gran and I are communicating, and that she's awake and she wants to see him.

He follows me inside.

"Gran," I say, "This is Eric Northman. Eric, this is my Gran, Adele Hale-Stackhouse."

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you at last, Mrs. Stackhouse, although I do wish it were under better circumstances," says Eric.

'_Well, I can see why you fell for him_,' Gran tells me. I don't think I'm going to translate that for Eric. '_Although, doesn't he know about hairdressers?'_

Eric laughs when I relay that to him. "My hair grows back in a night," he says. "Vampires are forced to keep the same hairstyle forever."

Gran continues to interrogate him —through me. She seems to have forgotten her real purpose for wanting to meet him, and keeps asking him about history. Eric, on his part, is charming the socks off Gran. She's touched that he's the one who saved her life by giving her blood, and also by the fact that he's been making sure that I'm looking after myself —or rather, he's been looking after me.

'_I approve_,' she tells me at last. '_He's a good man, Sookie.' _Well, that's good to know, even though Eric isn't actually my boyfriend. '_I knew I was right to trust you, sweet girl. I'm so proud. Now, you two go off and enjoy yourselves. You don't want to be keeping an old woman company, and I need to sleep anyway.'_

She sounds just like herself. It's as if none of this ever happened.

So when the doctor rings me after an hour to tell me that my Gran has passed, I just can't believe it.

* * *

There's a lot of grey and black in New York City, so it almost feels as if everyone is mourning to me. So many people turn up to Gran's wake that I almost wonder if I should have hired a football stadium instead of hosting it in Gran's old apartment. I don't actually see how many people turn up because I'm hiding upstairs in my apartment. I can't really get my mind around it. Gran can't be gone. She's always been here. When my parents left, Gran stayed. When Hadley left, Gran stayed. When Aunt Linda left, Gran stayed.

"Sookie," says Tara. "Maybe you should come downstairs and thank everyone for coming."

I glance at the clock. Four in the afternoon. The wake's most likely to go on until seven. three hours is too long. I can't in public right now. My shields are going haywire, and my mind is just...numb. If I go down there, there's no knowing what I'll do. Besides, I don't want to put on a mask and play the gracious southern hostess the way I've been taught. I know that would disappoint Gran if she were here to see me...but she isn't.

"I don't feel well," I say. I can't believe that voice is mine. It's so detached that it doesn't sound like me.

"Sook, please don't be like this," Tara begs. "You're scaring me. You can't just sit here in your pyjamas and do nothing!"

They're silk pyjamas, identical to the set that Gran loves. Loved. "My Gran's dead, Tara," I say. "What _am_ I supposed to do? You tell me, because I really don't know what you expect."

"People cry when they lose their loved ones."

"I can't." That's the honest to God truth. I know I should be reacting in a more emotional manner, but it's like it's not happening to me at all. I know what's going on in everyone else's mind, but I have no idea what's going on with mine. Sometimes, the mind that the telepath has no clue about is her own.

Tara finally coaxes me out of my silk pyjamas and into a black shirt dress—Celine. It's tidy and sharp, the opposite of what I'm feeling right now. Still, clothing is armour behind which we hide our real selves when we are feeling emotionally vulnerable. I put on my foolproof Christian Louboutin black pumps in patent leather. Tara brushes my hair for me and twists it into a tight bun at the nape of my neck. It's all I let her do.

Everyone turns to look at me when the elevator doors open. It's like I'm a circus animal to be gawked at. I can hear them thinking it's my fault that Gran's gone. I brought disaster upon our family by daring to breach their social codes. I hold my head high. Maybe I do feel that I'm responsible, but who are they to judge? I know about each and every one of their illicit affairs, and there are a lot.

I thank them for coming and accept their condolences.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Jason and—

He's a lot older. His face is gaunter, his hair has receded, and his beady eyes are rheumy, but I would recognize him anywhere. "You!" I hiss. I remember all his thoughts as my innocent childish mind caught them. Gran is not here to protect me from him now. Sookie Stackhouse has to start looking out for herself. "What is he doing here?" I demand.

"He's family, Sook," says Jason defensively. His eyes are bloodshot. He's on something, although I don't know what. "He has a right to be here."

"I don't want him here. Don't you remember what he's done?" Jason doesn't know about Hadley and me, but he knows about those other girls. "Look, I don't care if you do or don't. I want him out!"

"Who are you to judge?" Jason demands. "You're the one who fucked a vampire and you're the one who got Gran killed! It should be _you_ in that coffin!"

My hand connects with his face. "Out!" I scream.

After that, people quickly leave. Well, that's one way to clear the house. It's not a way I would have opted for had I been in my right mind. But I'm not in my right mind.

"Sookie," Tara begins.

"Just go, please," I say. My fire is spent. "I need to be alone."

I go back upstairs. I can't stand to be in Gran's apartment without her. Perhaps, one day...but it just feels strange right now.

"Should I go too?" asks a male voice. Eric. I didn't even realize that the sun's set.

I don't know what came over me, but I find myself in his arms, and I'm holding onto him for dear life. "I don't know what's wrong with me," I say. My voice cracks. Finally the tears come.

"Have you slept, Sookie?" he asks. I shake my head. Not really, even though I've been staying in bed ever since I got that fateful phone call. Perhaps that was why I had my public breakdown.

"You should rest," he says.

"Will you stay with me?" I ask. He pauses. "No, don't worry about it. I'm just being ridiculous. You're a busy man. I get that."

"No, I will stay if that is what you wish. Do you have a light tight space?"

* * *

When I wake up, I feel like a completely different Sookie. Gran's funeral is today. This is my chance to say goodbye. Denial is unrealistic, and it never helped anybody. I take a deep breath. My room smells stale from the days I've been spending in here. I pull up the shades and open the windows to let some of the staleness dissipate. Later, I'll have Norma Jean change my sheets.

Knowing that Eric is sleeping in the wardrobe for out of season clothes gives me strength. The door locks from both inside and out, and I've given him the key. Only I have the other one, and I'm not going to unlock that door during the day, so he's safe there. At least, no matter who turns up, I have a friend backing me.

I put on a black Chanel skirt suit, sheer black tights and a pair of black Margiela ankle boots with wedge heels that are suitable for walking on grass. Stilettos tend to sink into the dirt unless the dirt has been baked hard in the sun. I put on black silk gloves. No proper lady ever attends a funeral without proper headgear; mine is a black cloche. My only jewellery is the platinum watch that Gran gave me for my sixteenth birthday. I choose a plain suede box clutch -black- by Anya Hindmarch Marano, and then I'm ready to face the world.

There are so many people at the funeral, even more than at the wake. I see members of the Board of Trustees. They come to give me their condolences. Some of them are genuinely sorry. Others are here because they want to present a good image to the public. Gran's death has caused the price of Hale Industries' shares to drop. People don't know whether the company will survive without her, so they're selling in bulk.

I shake hands with hundreds of people and thank them for coming. The skies are grey, and blackbirds perch on the branches of the chestnut trees that surround the cemetery. The Hale crypt is there. Gran's going to be interred with the rest of her family. The Stackhouses don't have a crypt of their own. Grandpa Stackhouse was the owner of a small bookstore and his family didn't have the type of money that the Hales had, so he was interred in the Hale crypt too. Gran is going to be resting beside him for eternity.

After the funeral, the guests return to Gran's apartment for luncheon. Sydney Lancaster, Gran's lawyer, take Jason and me aside. He's brought Gran's will, and he wants to read it to us in private first before letting the Board of Trustees know of her wishes. We go to Gran's study. I'm still not talking to Jason, and I can tell that he's just fine with that. He's more interested in what Gran's left him anyway. He needs some money desperately. For what, I have no idea. I mean, his allowance is pretty huge.

Gran's split the contents of her bank account fifty-fifty. She's left Jason her apartment, but I got the company. When Sydney told us that, neither of us could believe it. I mean, me, take charge of Hale Industries? I don't even know how the share market works! Granted, neither does Jason, but still...

"Mr. Nathan Laskin will head the Board of Trustees until you feel that you are ready to take over," Sydney says. I've known him for...I don't know. As long as I can remember. For a lawyer, he's really honest, and he's always been nice to me.

"But why Sookie?" Jason demands. "I'm the oldest and I'm the man of the family!"

"That is what your grandmother wished," says Sydney. "We must respect that." '_As if the Board would ever accept Playboy Jason as the CEO_,' he adds in his mind.

"Sookie wouldn't know what to do!" Jason protests, conveniently forgetting that he has no idea what to do either.

"Which is why Nathan Laskin is in charge," explains Sydney. I know Nathan Laskin. He's an honest man and very trustworthy, which is probably why Gran chose him. Jason storms out in a huff. His mind is full of swear words so I withdraw from it immediately.

"There's also something else for you, Sookie," says Sydney. He hands me an envelope. I feel something hard inside it, along with a few folded sheets of paper. The envelope's been sealed with wax. The seal is a symbol that I'm not familiar with; it looks like a coiled serpentine creature. The detail is so intricate that I can make out individual scales, and that's on a seal the size of a quarter.

Sydney leaves me alone to my own musings and rejoins the main group. I grab Gran's letter opener from her desk and slide it under the wax seal. For some reason, I want to keep the seal intact. Later, I'll know why.

Inside is a key and a letter from Gran. The date on it is my eighteenth birthday.

_Dear Sookie,_ it reads.

_By the time you read these words, I'll no longer be with you. Just remember that I'll always love you, no matter where I am, and I know you'll make me proud. _

_I've done things in my life; things that I'm not proud of but things that I don't regret. I've been wanting to tell you for a long time, but the timing is never right. I am not ready to let these things come out into the open. I am not sure if I will ever be ready. I just hope that when you do find out, you'll be able to forgive me. _

Gran's words are cryptic, and I have no idea what they mean. She writes that the key is for a safe that contains the information I need if I still have no idea what she's talking about by the time I read these words.

I tuck the letter and the key into my purse and then call for Louis.

* * *

The bank is an old fashioned marble building, like something you'd find in Europe. I have to prove that I am actually Sookie Stackhouse before I'm allowed to access the safe because apparently, apart from Gran, I'm the only one who's allowed to see what's inside. That's what Gran wanted.

There are a lot of old photos inside the safe, along with birth certificates and Gran and Grandpa Stackhouse's marriage certificate, and a bunch of old letters. Some of them are love letters from Grandpa to Gran. Others are from a mysterious other person who only signs his name with an 'F'. I take it that it's the first letter of his name. I recognize the people in all the photos —Gran, Grandpa Stackhouse, Aunt Linda, Dad, Bartlett— save for one. It is a portrait of an extremely beautiful man who can actually compete with Eric in terms of handsomeness. He has a cleft chin and clear blue eyes and his skin is so very fair. Blond hair flows over his shoulders and obscures the top of his ears, although I can see that he has detached earlobes. The back of the photo yields a lot of clues. Gran's written the man's name, and the date that the picture was taken. The man was called 'Fintan' —what sort of name is that?— and the picture was taken in March 1958. Dad was born in December that year.

Fintan looks slightly familiar now that I think about it. In fact, he looks a bit like Jason —only more handsome, of course— and Jason looks a lot like Dad. I find a picture of Dad and compare it to Grandpa Stackhouse. Grandpa Stackhouse has a widow's peak. So does Gran. Dad, however, doesn't. Neither does Aunt Linda. I remember from biology class that a widow's peak is a recessive trait, meaning that if both parents exhibit that trait, then their children are bound to have it too.

So either Aunt Linda and Dad are adopted, or if they're not, they're still not Grandpa Stackhouse's children.

* * *

I don't tell anyone about what I've found and I put everything back in the safe, plus the letter. The key I take with me. There's more that needs investigating, and right now, I just don't have time.

I get home and get out of my funeral gear before hopping into the shower and scrubbing my skin so thoroughly that I feel a little bit raw when I get out. It's good. It reminds me that I'm alive. It's time to bring out the big guns. I select a khaki military style sleeveless shirtdress that's cut like a trench coat and cinch the waist with a wide brown leather belt that has a gold buckle. I slip my new YSL magenta suede pumps onto my feet and then add stacks of gold bangles as well as a large onyx and gold cocktail ring. It's I'm a woman on a mission; there's a murderer that needs catching and this time, it's personal.

It's four thirty; still an hour or so until Eric wakes up. That's enough time for me to go and pick the brains of the cops working on the case. If I'm going to solve this mystery, I'll need evidence. They're obviously not going to let me see the crime scene photos and the like, so I'll just have to get what I need myself.

Andy's in. He's still dressed in his black suit from the funeral, and he's surprised to see me. "Has the case gotten any new developments?" I ask.

"You know I can't discuss an ongoing investigation, Miss Stackhouse."

I stall for as long as possible whilst viewing a slideshow of crime scene photos. Maudette lies on her rug, her glassy eyes wide open. The killer's rearranged her body so that it's in a sexually explicit pose. He's trying to communicate something; he thinks she's a whore. It's the same with Dawn, except she's on her bed, and she put up more of a fight. Both women are naked. I can't be squeamish now. Those little details can mean the difference between defeat and victory. And then...

Sally Wentworth was Gran's secretary slash personal assistant. She's trying to put herself through journalism school and as a journalist in training, she's pretty good at PR and marketing, which is why Gran hired her. That, and Gran really wanted to help a hopeful young woman like Sally set herself up as a career woman. Sal's calling to remind me that there's yet another fundraising gala in three days, and she wants to know whether I'm cancelling or not. Originally, I was going to go with Gran.

"No," I say. "I'm not cancelling." It's very important for Hale Industries that I maintain a good public image. Of course, my little act with Eric is making the public think that I'm a very bad girl, but some people are praising my courage. Plus, Eric is a well-respected, if feared, businessman, so being seen with him doesn't actually harm the company.

"Who are you taking as your plus one?" Sal asks. "I have to inform them so they have the name cards right."

"Can I call you back tonight?" I ask. I have someone in mind; I just have to see whether he's willing to go or not.

* * *

"A charity gala?" says Eric. Judging from his expression, you might have thought that I asked him to go on the wheel of agony instead.

"Business, image, publicity," I remind him.

"I find these things rather odious," he says.

"You just have to smile until your cheek muscles hurt, and then keep smiling," I say. "Please? It might even be fun, coz you're with me and all, and it's for a blood bank."

Eric laughs. "Don't you think it's ironic to invite a vampire to a fundraising event for a blood bank?" he asks.

"Perhaps a little, but imagine the media storm. They're bound to pounce on it. That means more publicity, for us and for your club."

"And for Hale Industries," he adds. Yes, I told him about how Gran left the company to me. "I know you need to keep up a good public image, at least as a business woman, if not wife material."

I make a face at that. "Even if I do marry, I don't want to be defined as someone's wife," I say. "Not unless my future husband is a really really great guy who has the ability of Charlemagne and the heart of Gandhi. Then I'd expect to be overshadowed."

"You're going to be an old maid if that's your expectation for your future husband," says Eric. "Fine, I'll go with you. It will be interesting to watch their reactions, at any rate, and it's the first time that I've been a plus one."


	6. I've Got My Eye on You

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. They belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball.

**A/N: **Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers! Your reviews inspire me.

**Chapter 6: I've Got My Eye on You**

I share my discoveries from my visit to the police station with Eric. I really wanna catch this guy and put him on death row, and two minds work better than one. "He's gotta be someone who knows Gran and me, because he knew to wait for us at the Hamptons," I say.

"That narrows down the list of suspects," says Eric.

"And you know what's really funny?" I say. "When I read the cops, a lot of them have been glamoured sometime _before_ Gran was attacked. Whoever did it was better than Long Shadow, because he tacked on new memories, kind of like a collage or a Photoshop job, although it can't really cover the holes in the cops' minds completely."

"This does complicate things," muses Eric. "It might help if we can get security tapes from the police station."

I snort. "Good luck with that."

"It's easier than you think when you know people." He's entirely serious. My jaw drops and I don't really know what to say. Just when I think that I know something about Eric Northman, he surprises me. Whether that's a good thing or not, I don't know. At least I know I'll never be bored. "And there is something else I haven't told you; I smelled Tom Ford's Tobacco Vanille cologne when I first entered the house." Not only can he get security footage from police stations, kiss, and carry a good conversation, he also knows colognes by scent. Eric's better than Superman.

He sees me gaping at him, and he smiles. "Pam likes to get me cologne samples. That was one of them," he says. "Vampires have good memories."

"You have to show me what it smells like, in case I ever come across it," I say.

"So now you're going to suspect every man who wears that scent? Poor Tom."

"It's just a precaution." I smack his arm playfully. "What scent do you wear, anyway?"

"Bang by Marc Jacobs," he says with a grin. "I think it's fitting."

* * *

In the three days leading up to the Gala, I am completely occupied with familiarizing myself with the company. Nathan Laskin might be in charge, but I want to be in the loop too. Otherwise, I might soon find myself losing my company. I go in every day to visit every department, scanning minds and saying hello to the staff. Some of them are scared of me, either because I'm 'dating' a vampire or because I'm the owner. Some of the men are distracted by my figure.

I find that there are employees pilfering office supplies. Others are having affairs with one another —I don't care about that as long as it's not influencing their productivity— and some just spend all their time thinking about Facebook or lunch or something. In short, I don't find anything that I don't expect. I keep casting out my mind when I'm out in public, trying to catch any thoughts that might belong to the killer. He's definitely someone in my circles. Perhaps I even say hello to him when I see him on the streets. Serial killers aren't scary because they have 'deranged psychopath' stamped all over them. They're scary because they look just like you and me.

Nights are spent with Eric, either at my place or at Fangtasia. The public might think I'm completely obsessed with him, which is what we want them to think, but the truth is I'm actually scanning the club's patrons, in case any of them are undercover anti-vampire extremists or...

Jason. Now, people called Jason aren't expressly forbidden from Fangtasia, but I think that rule should apply to all Jason Stackhouses in the world. The thing is, I have no idea what Jason would want in Fangtasia. Surely he's not stupid enough to confront Eric —I have a sudden unpleasant image of my brother getting crushed like a bug in that Viking's huge hand— and he doesn't like vampires, so he's not here to experience the vampire lifestyle. I dig through his head. He has just one thing on his mind. V.

V is the street name for vampire blood, a controlled substance. I've heard stories about vampires getting caught and drained by people called drainers —the media is very creative when it comes to coining terms— and then left to die, or just outright killed. It's really hard to investigate the murder of a vampire for numerous reasons. One, they just turn into goo or ash so there's no body for the coroner to examine. Scientists have not yet perfected the art of identifying liquid or powdered remains, especially since no one knows how vampire DNA works, and two, some people are arguing that killing a vampire cannot be called murder, since vampires are already dead. Therefore, if drainers are caught, vampires simply kill them, according to Eric. I'll take his word for it.

I get out of my seat at Eric's private booth and run to intercept Jason before he can do something interminably stupid, like ask a vampire for their blood, which is _exactly_ what he's thinking of doing.

He sees me immediately. How could he not? Apart from being his sister, I'm also not dressed like everyone else in the club. Pam actually pouted and asked why she had to stick to those awful dress codes when I didn't. I don't think Eric ever gave her a satisfactory answer. I have to feel a bit sorry for her; I mean, the latex is awful. Tonight, I'm wearing a Herve Leger reptile print bandage skirt, a pair of black Charlotte Olympia suede and leather booties with tasselled zips and gold platforms, and a black silk chiffon blouse with a bow at the neck by Michael Kors. I've tried my best to conform but...well, leather and latex and bondage just wasn't my thing. Now that Hale Industries is mine, I have to present the image of a cool, classy lady.

However, at the moment, as I'm running towards Jason, I wish I were wearing different shoes. Like a pair of Louboutin sneakers instead. "Jason!" I exclaim. "What are you doing here?"

"That's none of your damn business now, is it?" he snaps at me.

"In case you've forgotten, I'm your sister, and I'm not gonna let you get yourself _killed_," I hiss. I grab his arm and he flings me off. I've never known that he was so strong before. I fly back several feet to crash into Eric, who's come to see what the commotion is about. This is not good. I can't very well lie to him, but I don't want him to rip Jason's head off either.

"Is there a problem?" asks Eric as he steadies me.

"No," says Jason. He stares insolently at Eric. His mind is full of rage. He blames Eric as much as he blames me for Gran's death. The only person he's not blaming is the murderer, although I suppose that's because he doesn't know who it is yet.

"Then I suggest that you leave before you create a problem," says Eric.

"I'm a customer and I have every right to be here!"

"My bar, my rules, and you haven't bought anything yet. For your sister's sake, I'll refrain from tossing you out personally like trash." His eyes flick towards Pam. "Pamela, escort Mr. Stackhouse to my office. I believe we need to have a little private conversation."

That does not sound good, and even Jason realizes it. He visibly blanches and wonders if he can actually fend off a six foot four Nordic vampire long enough for him to get away. I don't think he can. Eric's not only big and inhumanly strong, he's also fast. I've seen how fast he can be. Eric indicates that I should go in front of him and he holds the door open for me. "You're not going to do anything to him, are you?" I ask nervously.

"Sookie, he's on V," he says.

"You know?"

"I could smell it. The scent belongs to a very young vampire who went missing recently."

"You don't think Jason's responsible for his disappearance, do you?"

Eric pauses. "Do you?" he asks.

"Of course not!" I say. "But I am his sister, and I have every reason to protect him. Why should you believe me?"

"You smell different when you lie as the chemical composition of your blood changes," says Eric. "Plus, you tend to speak faster and more loudly, and your heart rate speeds up."

I stop in my tracks to stare at him. "You noticed all that about me?" I haven't even known him for a month yet!

"I am very good at reading people," he says. "It comes with the age. No, I do not think your brother is capable of killing a vampire on his own, no matter how pathetic the specimen. The vampire, that is; not your brother." Well, Jason _can_ be pretty pathetic. "I do, however, believe that whoever sold him the blood knows who did it."

"You want me to read his mind?"

"It's either that, or we...persuade him by other means." I don't want to know what those other means are. What I do know is that Eric couldn't have survived for this long by being Mr. Nice Guy. He's already proven that he's not particularly 'nice' in the conventional sense of the word. Kicking customers can't even be called 'nice' in any sense of the word.

"That won't be necessary," I say. "If he doesn't tell the truth, I'll know it."

We enter Eric's office. Jason is sitting on one of the hard metal chairs inside. I think Pam put him there to intimidate him —the sofa would be too hospitable, I guess— and it's working a little. At first, Jason thought that Eric wouldn't do anything to him because of his obsession with me (Hah! We should get Oscars for our act.) but now he's not so sure. Eric sits down in his exec chair and I sit on the couch. Pam sits on the other end of the couch. Now Jason is in the centre of this triangle.

"Jason? We need you to tell us where you got the blood from," I say.

"What blood?" Jason asks me, trying to throw me off. Even after twenty five years of being my brother, he still hasn't learned that it's useless to try and lie to me.

"Jason!" I say, a little more sharply, glancing at the two vampires who have their fangs out. Eric leans forward and props his elbows on his desk before lazily cracking his knuckles. With each crack, Jason visibly winces and grows paler until he looks as pale as the other two.

"I can't," he stammers. "They'll kill me."

"If you don't tell us, we'll kill you," says Pam, deadpan.

"You can't!"

"Why not?" says Eric.

Jason turns to me. "Sook, you've gotta help me! I'm your brother!"

"I _am_ trying to help, Jason, but I can't help you if you don't tell the truth," I say. "Who is it?"

"Denise and Mac," he whispers.

Now, this is New York City. There are possibly thousands of Denises and Macs out there. Millions, if you count the burger version. Now, how did my mind wander to burgers whilst I'm interrogating my brother? I know Jason's telling the truth, and I say so to Eric.

"Pam," he says. Pam leaves the office and returns moments later with pencils, a drawing pad, and one of those books full of noses and eyes and hairstyles and face shapes that forensic artists use for composite drawings.

"Describe," she commands as she flips open the sketch pad and props it on her knee, her pencil poised above the paper.

"Wh-what?" Jason stammers.

"What do your dealers fucking look like? We'll go with the woman first."

"Denise? Um...she's old," says Jason. "Not hot." My brother is a hopeless witness.

"Long pointed face," I say. "Pinched nose, thin lips, wide mouth." Jason gapes at me. He has no idea what's going on, even though he's known me for my entire life. He's always been of the opinion that I'm just a little crazy. Pam starts sketching. Her hand moves so quickly that it's a blur. An image begins to form on the page. I don't know much about art, but I can say this; Pam could be working professionally as a forensic artist.

Now we have the faces on paper. The thing is, how are we supposed to locate two faces in New York City? It's time for me to go to work again. Jason's only bought from Denise and Mac once. It was in Central Park, at the Blockhouse, which is an old military fort.

"How did you find them?" I ask.

"They came to me and said they had somethin' better than coke," says Jason. "I gave them my phone number and they called me and arranged a meeting."

There is no guarantee that the dealers go to the Blockhouse every time. For all I know, it was a one off thing.

Eric has Pam take Jason home after glamouring him to make him forget everything. I feel a bit guilty about doing nothing whilst my business partner alters my brother's memories, but it's really for the best. I don't want Jason to suspect that I might not be just crazy.

Eric pulls out a map of New York City from one of his drawers and sticks it to the wall. "The missing vampire, Eddie Gaulthier, lived here," he says, putting a thumb tack on the location. "This is where your brother bought the blood." He puts another thumb tack on the location of Blockhouse. Then he draws an oval that surrounds the two thumb tacks. He's an expert at this. "We will search this area, and if we do not find anything, we will expand the search."

"That's a very large area," I say.

"Luckily I have a lot of manpower at my disposal," he says.

"Are you, like, the Lord of New York City vampires or something?" I joke.

"Something like that," he says with a mysterious smile.

* * *

"Sookie, he's not going to believe his luck when he sees you," says Tara as she pushes the last bobby pin into my updo. I do admit that I look pretty good. Everything was professionally done. This is my first proper public appearance since Gran's funeral. I have to let our shareholders know that I am fine, and thus the company is going to be fine, which is why I asked Pam and Tara to help style me. That meant a shopping trip the night before, during which we spent thousands of dollars on jewellery and dresses and bags and most importantly, shoes.

A shoe might be a lot smaller than a dress and a lot less expensive than a statement necklace dripping with precious stones, but it is one of the most important items of clothing. A well made stiletto determines a woman's comportment and the way she moves. Any outfit, no matter how luxuriant, is never complete without the right shoe. All three of us agree on that.

I've chosen a pair of black platform Jimmy Choo sandals in patent leather with a heel so sharp they almost look like weapons. They're clean and minimalist, with some resemblance to a gladiator sandal, unlike the usual evening shoes I fancy. I suppose, however, it signifies the beginning of a new era. I can't be the frivolous heiress anymore, although I don't think I was ever that frivolous.

My dress is a sleeveless Azzaro red gown with a plunging V-shaped neckline that almost reaches my navel. At the point of the V there is a bit of beading, which draws attention to my cleavage. The ruching that starts at the waist accents my curves even further, and the side slit, which reaches mid-thigh, adds a last dose of sexiness. I chose red because it's such a strong bold colour, and I must present a confident strong front.

Pam hands me a pair of dangly gold mesh earrings, all the while trying to look down the top of my dress. Her fangs are out. I think it's _actually_ me this time, although with Pam, one can never tell. The diamond-shaped pieces of mesh hanging from the small round diamonds remind me of chainmail. My theme tonight seems to be war and fighting.

My make-up is subtle. In essence, I have eyeliner, a little bit of shimmer and blush, plus nude lipstick. I choose a Miu Miu calf hair clutch with leopard print, and then I'm ready, which is just as well, because I hear the elevator arrive on my floor.

"Hello, Eric," says Pam as six foot four of Viking sex god —did I really think that?— steps out. I 'hear' Tara hyperventilating in a good way behind me. I'm too busy hyperventilating a little myself to mind her. Eric's in a slim-fit Hugo Boss suit in navy blue, which makes his eyes look even bluer. His shirt is charcoal grey and he's left the top button open. His hair has been braided into a long plait down his back.

"Good evening Pam, Sookie, Tara," says Eric. "You look good, Sookie." He eyes me appreciatively.

"I can say the same of you," I say.

Pam hands me my black Alexander McQueen cape with gold embroidery. That alone cost almost fifty thousand dollars but it makes me feel like a woman who can take on the world and win. It's better than counselling and therapy.

"Shall we, milady?" asks Eric as he offers me his arm.

"We shall, milord," I reply.

* * *

It's a little funny, actually, watching the way people's expression change as they realize that the waiter is serving blood to a vampire during a fundraiser for a blood bank. Their thoughts are even funnier. Most of them are just thinking, 'Oh Lord!'. Jason doesn't remember a thing from that night, and he scowls in my direction. Well, mine and Eric's. I notice that he has yet another new girl on his arm. I don't know her. Later, I find out that she's Amelia Carmichael of the Carmichaels of New Orleans. She's a loud broadcaster, so I catch all these unwanted details about Jason in bed —Ew. Still, she seems to be smart and she's not on illegal substances, so that's better than Jason's usual picks.

A few couples are dancing on the dance floor, swaying languidly to the music. Eric holds out his hand to me and I gladly take it. I love to dance, and not to boast, but I'm a damn good dancer. So is Eric, I find out. Our movements are perfectly synchronized as we move to the beat. My heels beat a steady rhythm on the floor as I move. "You dance well, Sookie," says Eric.

"Ballet, Ballroom, Tango; you name it, I went to a class for it," I say.

"So you are acquainted with the dance of love?" he says.

"It's one of my favourites," I reply as he twirls me about.

"It is one of mine too," he says. I circle back to him and place my hand on his shoulder again. Even with my four and a half inch heels, my eyes only reach his mouth. His very kissable mouth, I might add.

"I never took you for a dancer," I say. "You look more like a warrior than a courtier."

"A good warrior will always be a good dancer," he says. "The theories behind the footwork are the same." The band strikes up a new tune. Whoever planned the music programme must have been feeling a little mischievous, because the next thing I know, I'm being whirled around by a vampire as we dance to a ballroom tango. He has so much power and grace in his movements that I feel like I'm flying. For a moment, I can forget my troubles and work out my frustrations in the dance. Then, all too soon, it's over. Besides, my shoes are not really made for dancing, although I suppose I could have chosen worse shoes.

I sit back down. A waiter comes by with flutes of champagne and also blood. I'm surprised that there are so many flutes of blood there, actually. Do they think that Eric has such a huge appetite?

It turns out that Eric is not the only vampire at this fundraiser for the blood bank, no matter how odd that might seem. No. Bill somehow got himself invited too, although he's on his own. I pretend he's not there, until he approaches me. To ignore him then would be just rude, and although he's been a prick, I won't stoop down to his level.

"Eric," he says. "Sookie."

"Bill," says Eric, giving him a slight nod. I didn't tell Eric about what Bill called me, figuring that it would end up getting Bill killed if I did. Or maybe neutered.

"Eric, would you mind if I borrowed Sookie for a moment?" asks the much younger vampire. "I need to speak to her in private."

Eric glances at me, and I nod. This seems to surprise Bill, but his expression quickly returns to neutral. I allow Bill to lead me away, although we're never out of Eric's line of sight. Sometimes, I wish that vampire minds weren't silent to me, because at least I'd have an idea what's going on. Right now, I'm clueless as to what Bill wants with me, although I'm guessing that he wants to dissuade me from 'seeing' Eric. Maybe it's some testosterone fuelled pissing contest. Hell, if I were Bill, I'd sure feel threatened by the Viking.

"Sookie, I just wanted to apologize for my phone call," he says. Well, that was totally unexpected. "It was uncalled for and uncouth, and I regret my actions most ardently."

"I accept your apology, Bill," I say.

"Thank you," he says.

"But that doesn't mean I consider you to be a friend yet, let's just make that clear."

"I understand. However, Sookie, I must warn you. Eric is very good at manipulating people. You don't know what you're dealing with."

"And I suppose you do?"

"Yes." He looks down at his shoes. "I have known him for many decades. He is very adept at exploiting people when they are at their most vulnerable. That's how he's survived for so long."

"Forgive me, but I don't think he's that kind of man."

"Of course you don't." Bill shakes his head. "You are young and naive and innocent. You won't see what he's doing until it's too late."

"Like I said, Bill," I say. "It's my mistake to make."

"I know, Sookie." He sounds sad, but there's something about his tone that seems off. "But your grandmother was so kind as to invite me into her circles that I cannot simply do nothing as he ruins you."

For a moment, I do doubt. I know Eric is an excellent businessman, and that means he's gotta be good at getting rid of his rivals. I push that thought out of my head, however. He has been nothing but a generous and good friend when I most needed a friend. "Excuse me, Bill," I say, stopping Bill as he continues to denounce Eric and all his underhanded deeds and vileness. "I need to go to the ladies' room." I can't exactly think of another way to escape him. Bill steps aside to let me pass. To his credit, he knows when he's not getting through to me.

While I'm in there, I might as well take care of some biological business. The bathroom has marble countertops and auto-flushing mechanisms. Technically, you could take care of your business without touching anything. I'm just washing my hands when I hear the door open and shut with a click. Wait. That's not normal. These doors only click when they lock. Wait, what's that smell? Tom Ford's Tobacco Vanille...

And then I hear it; that mind I've been searching for for so long. It's so full of rage that there are no coherent sentences, or even words. I do see images. Images of girls; lots of girls lying dead. Strangled. The funny thing is, I detect that some of his memory is missing too, but I'm too worried about being killed to concern myself with the smaller details right now.

I know he's sneaking up on me, whoever he is. In his rage, he's forgotten that I'm in a bathroom washing my hands, which means I'm facing a mirror. And if I'm facing a mirror then it means I can see what's going on behind me. I duck just as Rene Lenier tries to loop his tie around my neck. I thank the Good Lord that I'm not wearing a tight skirt which would make running very difficult.

"Help!" I scream. "Somebody—" I have to stop screaming as I dodge him again and try to unlock the door. He strikes me in the side of my head, sending me reeling. And then he's on me. His silk tie tightens around my throat. I claw at it, to no avail. Calm. I have to be calm. Conserve oxygen. Think. Think. Stiletto.

I lift my foot and stamp down as hard as I can on the top of his foot. He swears and the tie around my neck loosens a bit. I take that opportunity to slam my head backwards into his nose.

"Bitch!" he screams. I pull away, gasping and choking for breath. My reprieve doesn't last long as he lunges at me. My back slams into the edge of the marble counter top. Sharp pain lances through me. That's it. I'm going to die in here, in the bathroom of a fancy conference hall during a fundraising gala for the blood bank. I'm extremely unhappy about that. I mean, after all the trouble I've gone through, the murderer is still going to win and I didn't even bang a vampire for real. Yes, your mind goes a bit funny when you realize that there's no hope.

The door splinters and a whirlwind enters. No, seriously, that's what I first thought before I realize that it's actually a Viking. He throws Rene off me and into the wall. The man falls to the floor unconscious. By then, a crowd has gathered at the door of the ladies' room. Their thoughts fill my mind, and I can't hear a single thing.

I remember flashing lights, both from police cars and the ambulance. Eric telling me to be strong. Arlene crying. Jason shouting. I remember a needle. Numbness. Darkness.

* * *

I wake up to the beeping of the heart monitor. My throat's so sore that I can hardly bear to swallow. Tubes are attached to my arm, and I'm wearing an oxygen mask.

"Sook?" says Jason. "Sookie? How do you feel?" I give him a look. How does he think I feel? I'm in hospital and my head feels like it's twice its usual size, and my back feels like it's broken, only it can't be because I can still feel my toes. My toenails, by the way, are chipped. Perhaps I should sort out my priorities.

"What do you think?" Tara demands. Good old Tara. She might not be a mind reader, but sometimes, I swear she can read my mind. As my vision clears, I see that I am surrounded by flowers and pot plants; gifts from friends and well-wishers. Pam sent me a Neiman Marcus gift card. I think I might love her. One particular bouquet catches my eye. They're beautiful and exotic and almost obscene. I laugh—and then I regret it because my throat hurts like the devil. I don't even need to read the card to know who it's from. There's only one person who'd send flowers like that. I open the card to see what he's written anyway. It's not as if I've got anything else to do.

To my surprise, there is nothing except an 'E', signed with great flourish.

They all visit me in the hospital. Even Bill. I am wary of him at first, but he is as polite as he was when I first met him, and I can't say I don't want company, even if said company is as dull as a landscape print. He still tries to convince me to not see Eric anymore, but he doesn't insist when I tell him that I'm going to do whatever I please with my life. I hope he's given up.

Every day, I look forward to the time when my friends would visit and bring news from the outside. Pam tells me during one of her visits that they've caught the drainers who sold Jason the blood. She doesn't tell me what happened to the drainers after they were caught, but I assume it wasn't pretty.

Eric only comes in a few times, but when he does come, he stays for a while. I tell him about how Rene's mind also showed signs of glamour. He doesn't know what it means, but he promises that he'll look into it, in case there really is a vampire involved in the murders.

When my friends are not keeping me company, I think about the contents inside that safe. It's not like I have anything else to do anyway. Who is Fintan? What is his link to our family? He looks like Jason, but there is no way to determine whether it's just a coincidence or whether he's actually related unless I have DNA samples, and I don't. Too bad there's no one who can answer any questions I might have, maybe apart from Bartlett, and I am _not_ talking to Bartlett. At least, not yet. Not until I've completely run out of clues.

That seal on Gran's letter is also a complete mystery. I asked Tara to bring me my laptop so I'd have something to do. I've searched the web many times, but I haven't found an insignia like it. Perhaps...it's an old symbol that very few people know about these days? I really don't know, but I think I know someone who might. I'm just not quite ready to tell anyone about any of this yet.

* * *

It's good to be home. My bed is so much more comfortable than the hospital bed, and my apartment does not smell of antiseptic and death. For the first time in many weeks, I feel safe and content. Rene is behind bars. The media believes that Eric and I broke up on good terms and remain firm friends, so we won't have to pretend to be intimate anymore.

"It's just too bad about you and Eric," says Tara over coffee. "You made a really good couple."

"Tara, if I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone?" Now that the masquerade was over, it doesn't seem right to keep my best friend in the dark, especially since she is truly disappointed.

"Girl, I'm a stylist, and my clients think I'm their therapist," says Tara. "I know the real meaning of customer confidentiality."

"Eric and I weren't really _together_ together," I say. "We're just friends, and he was helping me to lure out a serial killer."

"For _real_?" says Tara as her eyes widen. "Now I like him even more. If he's such a good friend, then imagine—"

"There'll be no imagining," I say, cutting her off in midsentence. "I don't want to complicate things between us."

"You're too cautious, Sook," says Tara. "Sometimes, you just gotta make the leap, or else you'll never know what you really want. I mean, I wasn't sure about Eggs, but I married him anyway."

Benedict 'Eggs' Talley is an up and coming rock star and junkie who Tara married when she was twenty one. They got divorced six months later. Eggs is now better known for his appearances on page six than for his music.

"Look how that turned out," I say.

"Eric's not Eggs," she retorts. Well, she's right about that. Eggs was useless. In fact, I don't recall actually reading thoughts inside his head. I don't reply. Instead, I take a sip of my coffee and relish in it. Hospital coffee tasted like...well, it would be rude to say it, wouldn't it? "Have you even seen Eric after you got out of hospital?"

"A few times," I say. "We've both been so busy, that's all." That's the truth. He has his business to look after, and I have mine. I'm still learning about Hale Industries and there is such a lot to learn.

"You're free tonight," Tara points out.

"It's our girls' night out, and he's working."

"So? What's that got to do with anything?" She hauls me to my feet. "Come on. You need to change."

I look down at myself. I look fine. Blue shift dress, nude peep toe pumps, Cartier watch, Chanel earrings. There is nothing wrong with simplicity. "Why?" I ask.

"Because you look like you're going to a library opening, and we're going to Fangtasia tonight."


	7. Take Me Away

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything you recognize. They belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball.

**A/N: **Thank you for all the wonderful reviews. You guys inspire me!

**Chapter 7: Take Me Away**

The line leading up to Fangtasia stretches on for miles. When the patrons see me, they start whispering, and some girls are giving me the Evil Eye. I can almost see the green as the two of us march right up to the vampire who's manning the door. He's a new guy I don't recognize. "The back of the line is there," he says, indicating a point some three blocks away from the club's door.

"I don't think you know who you're dealing with, Mister," says Tara.

"Tara!" I hiss. She ignores me.

"This is Sookie Stackhouse, a close friend of Mr. Northman's."

The vampire isn't convinced until Pam's voice comes from within, commanding him to let us in. He looks at us incredulously as we pass him. I don't think he reads the gossip columns.

The club is so crowded that there's no room to sit, except for Eric's private booth, that is, although it doesn't seem right to grab his seat without his invitation. Eric himself is nowhere to be seen, so I assume he's in his office.

"Sookie, don't you look delightful, as always," says Pam when we see her. "And Tara, you're a sight for sore eyes. I've really had enough of black leather and latex."

I'm wearing a Lanvin asymmetrical satin silk top in blush tucked into black cropped leather pants from Balmain and a black sequined blazer from Moschino, along with a pair of strappy Miu Miu platform stiletto sandals in fuschia and a Marc by Marc Jacobs gold bracelet watch. It _kind of_ adheres to the unspoken dress code of Fangtasia, although not much. However, I'm better than Tara, who's rocking a leopard print faux fur coat, tie-dye open back body-con dress in reds, oranges, yellows and blues, and a pair of bright blue Isabel Marant suede pumps with poppy bows on the side. The only black in her outfit are the mesh neck panel and the spots on her coat. She looks like a bird of paradise amongst a flock of crows.

"Is Eric in tonight?" I ask.

"He's in his office," Pam says. "He's occupied, but you're welcome to interrupt him. I'm sure he won't mind." Maybe it's because I don't know Pam very well yet, or maybe she's just subtle, but I don't notice the gleeful twinkle in her eye as I make my way towards the back. I catch a lot of thoughts about sex, and sex with Eric in particular, but I don't think much about them because that's the norm at Fangtasia.

It's not until I reach Eric's door that I notice something's not quite right. The door is open, yes, but there are voices coming from within. Still, if the door's open, and Pam says it's all right to interrupt, then it must be...

Not all right. At _all_.

I find Eric with not one, not two, but three women. Before today, I didn't know that it was possible to have a foursome. Somehow, Eric the Sex God is managing it easily as he lounges on his sofa, limbs akimbo and pretty much naked. He even manages to greet me —after breaking off a kiss, of course.

"Hello Sookie," he says in a perfectly even voice as I gape, my morbid fascination keeping my eyes glued to the scene before me. "Would you care to join me? Zoe and Nicole were just leaving, weren't you?"

Two blonde heads nodded. The brunette is still very busy...uh...down south. "Yes, master," they chorus. They're close to Ginger's state of functionality.

"No thanks," I say. "I don't share very well." I tear my gaze away —with some difficulty, because my eyes seem to have decided to settle on Eric's very impressive pectorals— and turn to leave. I'm feeling something that I definitely should not be feeling. Perhaps I should have worn green to Fangtasia tonight.

Yes. If I'm to be completely honest, then I must say that I am jealous. Jealous of those girls who probably have difficulty paying their rent and who, most likely, aren't going to live past their fifties. Yes, I'm jealous of those girls who mean nothing but the two Fs to any vampire. I'm jealous of them because I can't bring myself to admit that I want Eric.

I don't really know what I feel for him. Affection, yes. A whole lot of gratitude and respect. And lust. But I'm a lady with self-respect and self-control, even though there are no words in my vocab that I hate more right now. I wish I could throw away all those values and just indulge in my need. I'm a twenty five year old virgin and this is the first time I've wanted a man so much. But isn't the difference between a human and the rest of the animal kingdom the ability to restrain oneself? Restraint. God, I hate that word.

"Sookie, you are not happy," Eric states. He's got his jeans back on, thank God.

"I'm fine," I say, not looking at him. I'm not fine and we both know it.

"Is it possible that you're unhappy about seeing me with those women."

"Of course not." Liar, liar, pants on fire. I should know better than to lie to a vampire who knows exactly when I'm lying. It doesn't stop me from trying, though. The human mind is not entirely rational.

"Well, you refused to have sex with me," he begins.

"I get it. You need your two Fs," I say.

"You don't have to be jealous, Sookie. They mean nothing to me." It's as if our roles are switched and he's the telepath.

"Can't I just feel jealous because they can do what I can't let myself do?" I say. There, I said it. It doesn't make me feel any better.

"It doesn't have to be this way," says Eric softly as he turns me around to face him. God, he is so beautiful. He reaches up to cup my face, and then he slowly brings his mouth down to mine.

He's kissing me, and although he has no body heat, his very touch sends fire shooting down my spine to the soles of my feet. My hands move of their own accord and my fingers tangle themselves in his hair. It is thick and heavy and cool, like satin.

But no. This can't happen. I push him away. "We can't," I gasp. "I can't."

"Why not?" he asks. He's confused, and for a moment, so am I, but I recover quickly. There is a reason I tried to stop myself from feeling anything for him.

"Because I like what we have between us, and I don't want to complicate things and ruin it," I say. "Sex complicates everything."

"Why? Is it so complicated to find pleasure with someone whose company you enjoy? Sex is just sex. An act of passion. It doesn't have to be more than that if you do not want it to be." He sounds so reasonable, but I'm still terrified. From my experience, friends who have sex with one another and then break up cease to be friends; at least not the sort of friends they used to be. It's not my personal experience, of course, but I've read enough minds. Eric continues to stroke my face, comforting me, soothing me, calming me.

I remember how safe I felt when I was with him during our little masquerade. I remember how good it felt to dance with him, or just talk with him. "I'm scared," I say. "I've never done anything like this before."

"Sex?" asks Eric. A thousand year old vampire he may be, but he's still a guy.

"Anything more than a platonic relationship, you...you...Viking!" I smack his chest, but I don't mean anything by it. I don't know why, but once he's analyzed my situation, it doesn't seem so serious. I mean, it's still serious, but not as serious as before.

He chuckles. "There's a first for everything," he says. "You do not have to decide right now, but I hope you will consider what I've said."

I can't think anymore. Like Tara said, if I don't take the leap, I'll never know what I want.

I kiss him back. Fireworks explode behind my eyelids. There's so much heat that if we actually get in bed, the bed might actually spontaneously combust. I'm only half joking. So what can happen during such a magical moment, except a timely interruption by one Bill Compton?

The noise of my ringtone surprises both of us. I would have liked to simply ignore the call, but what's that old saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I have no idea whether Bill is my friend or my enemy, but either way, I have to keep him close. He's been trying to ingratiate himself with me.

"Bill, this is not a good time," I say, trying not to sound annoyed. Eric looks plain pissed off and if that bulge in his jeans is any indication, he has a good reason to be.

"Are you seeing him again, Sookie?" Bill asks. I can hear that he's barely keeping his voice even. His accent is really heavy; almost incomprehensible, actually. However, he knows better than to outright accuse me of being...I don't think I need to say it.

"Bill Compton," I say, "the only way you can possibly know that is if you're following me or signed up to an RSS feed on all things Sookie Stackhouse. Either way, that's stalking and I don't appreciate it."

"I just want to keep you safe, Sookie." His voice immediately becomes gentler.

"I'm not your responsibility." I see Eric doing something on his phone. There's a beep as my phone indicates there's a second incoming call.

"There's another call coming in, Bill," I say. "Bye." I switch to the other call, only to find out that the other person's hung up.

"Has Bill Compton been contacting you much?" Eric asks as he puts away his phone. Sneaky vampire. How does he know what I need?

"Much? I'm thinking of buying another phone and not giving him that number so that other calls can come through," I say. "I don't know why, but he gives me the creeps." No one, vampire or otherwise, can be such a huge suck up if they don't want something from me. I prefer it when people ask me directly, but Bill hasn't asked, so I suspect that whatever he wants from me, I'm not going to want to give him.

Eric looks thoughtful. "Then we are of the same mind," he says.

"He gives you the creeps too?"

"My sweet Sookie, nothing can 'give me the creeps' as you put it, but I do not trust Bill Compton further than I can...never mind."

* * *

Last night has confused me. What came over me? I'm not usually like that. I don't believe in sex without commitment. So why was I actually ready to jump Eric's bones? My mind is so muddled that it's almost giving me a headache. It can't be. It can't. No, I'm not in love with Eric Northman. I _can't_ be in love with Eric Northman. I've known him for...a month? I mean, I'm not the romantic type. I believe true love exists, but I believe it's something that takes a long time to develop. Not four weeks. Not even four months.

I toss and turn in bed, and finally manage to fall asleep by five in the morning, so I sleep past noon. I spend the rest of the day pondering what's happened. In fact, I need to figure out what happened first. _Am_ I in love, or am I in lust? And if it's the former, how the hell did that happen? What does it feel like to be in love anyway? For some people, it's like floating on a cloud and basking in the sunshine. At least, that's how Arlene feels whenever she 'falls in love'. I'm not sure whether her feelings are all that accurate. I don't feel that way. With Eric, I just feel that he's not going to let any harm come to me, that's all. He'll help me, he'll listen to me. He's a good friend and his friendship is something I don't want to lose, ever. I try to take my mind off things, and I concentrate on the contents of the safe. I've brought them home. It's easier to try and piece things together when I don't have a time limit.

It's hard, though. My mind keeps drifting back to last night, and I can't concentrate. In fact, I'm so distracted that I don't notice that something's amiss until it's dark.

Norma Jean's been my housekeeper ever since I got the penthouse. I hired her myself because she's honest and hardworking and she doesn't gossip. Plus, she's a hell of a good cook. I generally don't find anything in her mind that shouldn't be there when I give my staff their monthly mental scan —without their knowledge, of course. Besides, it's not time for their monthly scan yet. Still, I really should have noticed it earlier, and by the time I did...

I can only think of one person to call; the one person who will be able to help me with this. Eric picks up before the first ring is over. "Eric," I say. "Someone's glamoured my housekeeper. The signature's the same as the one I found on Rene and the cops."

"Stay right there and rescind the invitation of all vampires to your home," says Eric. The elevator bell rings as it arrives on my floor. The door opens to reveal Bill, dressed as a delivery man, and a very much glamoured Ivan the Doorman. Bills fangs are down. I've never seen him look this way before. I can see the whites of his eyes beneath his irises.

"Vampires, I re—" I begin.

"Not so fast, Miss Stackhouse," says Bill. "Or else he dies." He has Ivan by the neck. I know my doorman has three kids whom he adores and a wife who loves him very much. He's their main source of income.

"What do you want, Bill?" I say, trying to stall him. Eric's still on the line so I'm sure he knows what's going on, and that he's on his way.

"You, Sookie," says Bill. "You."

"Don't you think you're going too far just to get a girl?" I ask. "I mean, chocolates and flowers are the norm, and I kind of like those better than...this."

"But you're not just any girl, are you, Sookie?"

"I've got ovaries and breasts so yeah, I think I _am_ just any girl."

"That doesn't matter. It's you I want, so it's you that I'll have. Now, if you'll come with me nicely, I swear that nothing will happen. If I even smell a whiff of Viking, your doorman dies. His wife will be a widow and his children orphans and it will be on you."

"Bill, let's not be rash—" I say. Oh, come on, Eric!

"On a count of three," says Bill. "One." His hand tightens around Ivan's neck. I can't wait any longer. Eric just won't be able to get here in time. I just have to hope that he'll know how to save me.

"Fine," I say. "But you have to promise that no one will be harmed."

"Done," says Compton.

I step into the elevator. There's a crack as the vampire snaps Ivan's neck. "You!" I scream.

"Promises to humans don't mean anything," he says as he swings me around so that my back is facing him and his arm is around my throat. I lift my foot and kick backwards with all my might. Thank you, Mr. Louboutin, for creating shoes that have such pointy heels. I'm wearing a pair studded black stiletto booties with five inch heels. Luck must have been on my side, because the heel strikes Compton in the weak point that all men have. He deserves it, and more.

"Bitch!" he screams. I feel sharp pain lance through my head, and then there's darkness.

* * *

Eric gets there too late. He knows he's too late. He heard everything on the phone, up until that bastard Compton broke Sookie's phone. The elevator smells of Sookie. Sweet Sookie and her sweet blood. A dead man lies on the floor of Sookie's apartment. The housekeeper is in so much shock that she can't even move. Eric glamours her to make her forget this ever happened. He follows the scent trail that Sookie's left behind. Head wounds bleed a lot. It stops at the curb. There are tyre marks, indicating that a car has pulled away from the curb very quickly.

He wants to punch something, kill something. Preferably Compton. He knew he shouldn't have let him stay, only he hadn't had a reason to kick him out. He pulls out his phone. He needs information if he's to find Sookie.

"Pam," he barks into the phone as soon as his child picks up. "Pull up everything you can get on Bill Compton. I want to know everyone he's fed from and fucked. I want to know his sleeping habits, where he gets those awful polo shirts that aren't even Ralph Lauren, and I want to know what he wants with my Sookie."

* * *

I wake with a headache and I gingerly reach up to touch my head. Blood mats my hair and I can feel a bump the size of a goose's egg. I'm lying on a large bed in a windowless room. There is, however, an air conditioning vent. I wince as I sit up. I have no idea where I am. What does Bill Compton want with me? I've read too much about sexual predators who lock up their victims in secret rooms. Is that what Compton is? Another deranged psychopath?

Anger and fear clash. Anger wins. I refuse to be intimidated. I won't let him win, no matter what he wants with me. I cast out my mind. There are humans about. Severely glamoured humans, although some of them are capable of rational thought. They're thinking about vampires and who's going to bite them next. It figures. This is the vampire version of a harem. The door is locked, just as I expected —although I had to give it a try anyway. The air conditioning vent is covered by a metal mesh, but I figure that if I apply the right amount of force at the right angle—who am I kidding? I have to be able to reach it first. Besides, Physics was never my best subject at school. Even if I read the teacher's mind, I never understood what he was thinking about.

I look about for furniture to stack up. There's an antique chair made out of maple—wait. Wood. It seems like a good idea to take up arms. I am all for peaceful and diplomatic means when it comes to problem solving, but sometimes, violence is completely necessary. I manage to break off one of the narrow slats at the back of the chair. I'm going to need the rest of the chair if I'm to reach that air conditioning vent. I tuck the slat into the back of my jeans.

There's a click as the door opens. I quickly grab my makeshift stake, ready to stab whoever comes through. Hopefully, it's Compton. It's not Compton, but a blonde vampire whose face I could not possibly not recognize.

"Hadley?" I whisper, dropping my stake. My cousin, the runaway drug addict, is now a _vampire_? "Hadley, how...when...what the _fuck _is going on?"

"I'm sorry, Sookie," says Hadley. "But there's no other way."

"No other way to do _what_?"

"You don't understand."

"Try me."

We all thought that Hadley had been dead for years. She ran away during her third stint of rehab. She was seventeen, then. Jason was sixteen and I was thirteen. Hadley's always been a difficult kid. She got into trouble for underage drinking when she was eleven. She got expelled for having sex with a teacher in order to make grades when she was fourteen. Her dad died when she was four and Aunt Linda just didn't know how to handle her. By the time she was fifteen, she was snorting coke and smoking weed. Each time she got out of rehab, she just relapsed.

It turns out, after she ran away, she took to the streets, selling sex for drugs —and food and other necessities. She could have come home, but she was too proud, and too ashamed of herself, but she thought she couldn't change.

"Then I met Remy," she says with a ghost of a smile. "I passed out on his lawn. He took me in and took care of me. I fell in love with him, and I swore I would change, no matter how impossible it was. But I was naive. It's easier to move mountains than to change someone's character. I just couldn't. I fell in with the vampire crowd, met Sophie-Ann, fell in love again. So here I am."

"I don't get what this has to do with me," I say. "Why am I here?"

"Sophie-Ann wants her own telepath," says Hadley.

"That's ridiculous," I say. "There's no such thing."

"Don't lie to me, Sookie. I've always suspected that you were something more than human. Remember? I'm the girl who believed in faeries and witches and magic and miracles. It turns out I'm right."

"All right, so hold up. Your new girlfriend wants a telepath, so...what? You hired Bill Compton to _kidnap_ me?"

"It wasn't supposed to be that way. You were supposed to fall in love with Bill Compton and he would bring you back here to serve the Vampire Queen of Louisiana. That's Sophie-Ann. Then Northman happened, and you distanced yourself from Compton, so he had to resort to other means."

I snort. That's even more ridiculous. Compton? Never. I have _standards_, you know. "Like I'm actually going to stay here," I say.

"You might as well accept it, Sookie," says Hadley. "You won't be able to get out. This place is guarded day and night. You'll be killed before you even get half a step out of the compound. It's not so bad if you behave yourself and obey the rules. Good pets sometimes get their own allowances." It sounds like hell.

"Why would I want to be some vampire's pet?" I demand.

"Sophie-Ann isn't just any vampire. She's the vampire queen of Louisiana. Weren't you listening?"

"What, so is there a King of New York and a Queen of Alaska as well?" I mock.

"NYC has a prince," says Hadley. "It's a principality, not a kingdom. New York State has a queen, and Alaska has a king. Pretty much, there's a king or queen for every state, except for the special territories, like NYC."

It's so much information to absorb. "What I don't get, Hadley, is _why_ you would sell me out to your girlfriend. Isn't there a single _drop_ of family loyalty left in you, or did you throw that all away in exchange for a place as some vampire queen's lapdog?"

"I had no choice," Hadley hisses. Her fangs drop. "I'd do anything, sell out anyone and go to hell and back to protect my son. The queen wants him because he's like you, and in order to draw her attention away, I had to give her what she wanted."

* * *

Papers and pictures are scattered all over Sookie's desk. Eric looks through them. He doesn't really know what he's looking for. Perhaps some clue as to where she could have been taken. She was working on this when she was taken. A picture catches his eye.

He would have gasped if he actually breathed. Why is Fintan's picture on Sookie's desk? Did Sookie know where Fintan was? Was that why she was taken? No. Not possible. Compton could not possibly be in league with the water fae and no one else is hunting Fintan, as far as he knows. Still, it doesn't explain why Sookie has his old friend's picture. Eric hasn't seen Fintan for decades, and he doesn't know whether he's dead or alive. He reads through the papers. They're mostly letters. There's one dated just seven years ago that Adele Stackhouse wrote to Sookie.

Eric's eyes widen.

His phone rings and he quickly answers. It's Pam

"Louisiana," she says. "Bill Compton's last known place of residence is Louisiana. My sources tell me that he had Sophie-Ann's favour. It is not known why he left when he was being promoted so quickly."

"He didn't leave," says Eric. "He was sent." He remembers how Bill was so reluctant to do club duty when he first asked him. It was as if Compton wasn't one of his subjects, even though he resided in his principality. Now he knows why, and he is furious at himself that he didn't realize sooner.

"How did Sophie-Ann find out about Sookie? And before we did?" asks Pam.

"I don't know," says Eric. He gathers up the papers on Sookie's desk and put them inside her drawer. "Pam, while I'm gone, you're in charge."

"Where are you going?"

"New Orleans, of course." That is the simple answer, but the truth is not so simple. If he was to get Sookie out of Sophie-Ann's kingdom, he's going to need more than just himself. He scrolls down his list of contacts.

"Eric Northman," says the voice on the other end.

"Barisan, my friend," says Eric. "It's time for me to call in that favour you owe me."

* * *

I'm more than mad. I'm so furious that I could spit—except that wouldn't achieve anything. But at the same time, I understand why Hadley's done what she's done. She's a mother. Her child will always come first. I've yet to come to terms with the fact that my cousin Hadley has a kid. Still, kid or no kid, that's not going to stop me from trying to get out. Selfish, I know, but I've had enough of being played, and I'm definitely not going to be a pet of any sort. I'd rather die.

There's a wardrobe full of clothes in my room. Most of it looks like lingerie. Whoever this Sophie-Ann is, she's taking the innerwear-as-outerwear trend far too literally. There are also satin pumps. Not designer, of course, but wearable. I still have my clothes from when I was so rudely kidnapped —7 For All Mankind dark wash skinny jeans, Roberto Cavalli Zebra print t-shirt, Alexander McQueen blazer in blush and of course, my trusty Louboutins. I regret not wearing any silver jewellery, even if silver doesn't suit my skin tone as well as gold. Come to think of it, I haven't worn any silver at all ever since meeting Eric.

Speaking of Eric, he'll come for me, won't he? I mean, if he knew where I am, which he probably doesn't. Wait...Hadley said NYC is a principality, and Eric said he was 'something' like the lord of all vampires in New York, so doesn't _that_ make him the prince? Therefore, wouldn't snatching me from under his nose equate to a diplomatic faux pas? I mean, Troy fell because Paris stole Helen away. Granted, I doubt my face can launch a thousand ships, but it would at least justify some sort of justified retribution from New York, right? Eric doesn't seem to be the type who'd just swallow an insult such as this. Perhaps I do have some bargaining power.

—

Barisan is waiting for him at a bar in Bourbon street. His old friend looks just the way he did when the three of them —vampire, warlock and faerie— wandered the earth, from England to Korea. He's cut his hair and trimmed his beard into a moustache and goatee, and added a pair of glasses, as if that could hide the fact that his brown eyes held years of wisdom and experience.

"What is it that I'm doing here?" Barisan asks once Eric's sat down opposite him and ordered a bottle of synthetic blood. The warlock is still as fond of his strong liquor as he always was, back in the day when they were young and more than just a little irresponsible, and he's nursing his second Sazerac cocktail.

Eric quickly explains the situation, including Sookie's possible link to Fintan. "So...basically, you don't really need my help," says Barisan once he's finished. "The law is on your side. If Sophie-Ann doesn't give the girl back to you, you'll have the right to either challenge her to a duel or declare war on her...or mess with her bank accounts."

"But even if she does shoulder the responsibility, she's allowed not to let Sookie go if she or one of her vampires has forced her into a blood bond," says Eric. "I'm not sure whether that has already happened, so this is where you come in. You say you can break blood bonds."

"Given the right amount of time, yes," says Barisan as he downs his bourbon. "Do we have that much time?"

"I'll make you time," says Eric.

* * *

I see my face on the television in my room. They're doing a report on my kidnapping. I see Jason and Tara, supporting one another as Sydney Lancaster tells the gathered reporters that the family has every faith that the police will find me and the ones responsible. Somehow, I doubt that, but I do relish in the fact that pressure is being applied to Sophie-Ann LeClerq.

Yes, _that's_ the Queen of Louisiana. I've heard her name before, or rather, read it in the Wall Street Journal. She owes the IRS millions of dollars and is well known for her luxurious and expensive lifestyle. I mean, what does a vampire need with a Caribbean island anyway? It's not like they can do any sunbathing.

My door unlocks. "Human, the Queen wants to see you," says the vampire standing in the doorway. He looks as if he should be attending biology class, but I know he's centuries old. His name is Andre, and he's Sophie-Ann's second in command. He wrinkles his nose at me. "Get changed." I don't see what's wrong with what I'm wearing. I've washed my t-shirt and changed my underwear. I tell him so.

He backhands me so hard that I fly back into the bed. I taste blood from my split lip. "You're not dressed the way a pet should be," he snarls.

"I'm not a pet," I spit back. He advances on me, but I know he won't kill me. Beat me within an inch of my life, sure, but to actually take it? Nah. A dead telepath is no good to anyone.

He claps irons around my wrists and leads me out of my room the way someone would lead a dog out of its kennel. In the eyes of these vampires, I am probably the same as a poodle. It makes me realize just how different Eric is, and how much I miss him. And Pam. And Tara. Stuff it. I'm just homesick.

I'm led into a large room with a domed roof. There is so much artificial lighting that I start sweating from the heat. Someone's trying to recreate the tropics, but the painted windows with sickly green palm trees is just tacky. There is a throne in the middle of the room. Extending from it are two rows of chairs. Sophie-Ann LeClerq sits on the throne with sunglasses perched on her nose. She looks like an old-fashioned Hollywood star, with her perfectly coiffed red hair and her pouty red lips, although I know she's probably much older and a lot more sinister than Marilyn Monroe. There are at least twenty more vampires in the room with her, not counting Andre. I scan the faces. Compton's there, Hadley's there, and...

Eric.

* * *

(To see the boot that Sookie kicked Bill with, google 'Christian Louboutin lipspikes'.)


	8. Come With Me

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. They belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball.

**A/N: **Thanks for all the wonderful and inspiring reviews!

**Chapter 8: Come With Me**

I run through the list of possibilities in my head. One, he's here to save me. Two, he's in on this—but it's unlikely because since I'm in New Orleans, the transaction is complete and therefore there is no need for him to be here _if_ he is in on it— and three. Well, there is no three.

"Your Grace," says Sophie-Ann, addressing Eric. "Is this the human you claim that I have taken from you without your consent?"

"Indeed, Your Majesty," Eric replies. So he _is_ here to save me, although he seems to be choosing the path of diplomacy rather than violence. I don't really care how he does it as long as he gets me out. The results are everything—although I prefer to choose the most honourable means.

"Yet there is no proof that she is yours," says Sophie-Ann.

"She is under my protection, as a human who resides in my principality. Your procurer, William Compton, unlawfully kidnapped her from her home and a man was killed in the process."

"Very well, then," says Sophie-Ann. What, that's it? She's going to let me go after Eric's...three sentences? Either Eric has a lot of political influence, or Sophie-Ann is pathetic. Or both. "Name your price. How much do I need to pay in compensation?" Wait, what? Perhaps there is a number three. Eric's come for his money.

"I don't think you understand my meaning, Your Majesty," says Eric. "I don't want your money, not that you have any to give me. I want my human back."

"I'm afraid that's not possible," says Sophie-Ann. "She is of a very rare pedigree—" Oh, come on! Now I have a _pedigree_? "—and I am not willing to give her up so easily. Besides, there is no proof that she is yours. Why, she's a virgin!"

'_Mademoiselle Stackhouse,'_ says a voice suddenly in my mind. I don't recognize it. Who's talking to me? _'Mademoiselle Stackhouse, pretend you're not hearing anything, but listen to me. You must tell them that you belong to Eric, or else he has no claim over you other than being the reigning vampire monarch in your area_.'

'_You want me to say that I'm his pet?' _I think back as hard as I can, hoping that whoever is transmitting their thoughts to me will hear me. It's funny. I didn't detect any live minds when I came in, and technically, I still don't detect one. Is there possibly _another _telepath here?

'_I was trying to word it in a more pleasant manner, but yes, that is essentially it,' _says the stranger giving me advice. _'Or, alternately, you could say that you're mine because I really wouldn't mind that, but I think you'd prefer my Viking friend.' _Men. They're all the same. I discreetly try to see who might possibly be the telepath. There's a rather tanned man sitting next to Eric. His face is completely expressionless and he's not looking at me at all. But he's got a tan, and vampires don't tan.

Whoever he is, he's gotta be someone really powerful, or else his purported 'claim' on me wouldn't mean anything to the vampires at all.

"I am the Prince's," I say.

'_Good girl_,' says the other telepath.

"He has not had you," says Andre.

"He's tasted me," I say. "Isn't that right, Your Grace?" I am very adaptable when it comes to social situations. I've grown up in a tank full of social sharks and if you don't know how to manoeuvre, you'll end up getting bitten.

"Your human is very insolent," says Andre. "You have not tamed her very well, Lord Eric."

"I prefer a little bit of fire in mine," says Eric smoothly.

"Why have you not told me of this?" Sophie-Ann asks, turning to Compton.

"I did not think it important at the time," mutters Compton. I know what Sophie-Ann's doing, and even though that bastard deserved whatever he got and more, I feel the smallest hint of sympathy for him. He was just acting on his mistress's orders. In the end, the fault lies with Sophie-Ann. If she wasn't so interested in Hadley's son because he's 'like me', then Hadley wouldn't have sold me out to her. If Hadley didn't sell me out, Bill wouldn't have been sent to get me.

"You almost created a rupture in the relationship between the Kingdom of Louisiana and the Principality of New York!" exclaims Sophie-Ann.

"I was acting on your orders, Your Majesty," says Compton. Is that a slight hint of panic in his voice? I'd be panicking if I were him. Who wants to be a scapegoat? Granted, he's a prick, but he doesn't deserve to take the fall for someone else. No one does. If he's to be punished, then at least he should be punished for his own crimes, which include kidnapping, assault, breaking in and entering and murder.

"Yes, I did tell you to _invite_ Miss Stackhouse to Louisiana, but you know as well as anyone else that another vampire's human is completely off limits, and you should not have forcefully taken her. You almost had me break the most basic of laws, and I didn't even know it!"

We all know it's a farce. I mean, if _I_ know it's a farce, then surely Eric must know. He's smart. However, he has no choice but to play along. It's not as if it would be diplomatic to point out that it's the queen's fault. That's the problem with monarchies. Monarchs are dictators. Sometimes, so are presidents, but they can't actually kill you for saying that they're wrong.

Compton bows his head. He knows he's doomed. He's got nothing he can say for himself without outright accusing the queen of infiltrating another state and snatching another monarch's assets.

Great. Now I'm thinking of myself as an asset. Way to go, Sookie.

"Your Grace, I apologize most sincerely for this great offence against your sovereign state," says Sophie-Ann. Eric dips his head and accepts the apology sincerely. The vampire queen nods at Andre, indicating that he should let me go. As soon as Andre takes his hands off me, I stagger to my feet and hold out my shackled hands. Like I once said, I'm not into bondage stuff.

Andre glowers at me as he unlocks the manacles and removes them from my wrists. The metal cuffs have made red imprints on my skin. It takes all my willpower not to collapse from relief. I am not a pathetic little girl. I'm a woman. A CEO. Even if I am standing in front of royalty, I can't show that I'm intimidated. It's about appearing to be confident and self-sufficient even when you're not. You know, like the way animals puff up their fur or feathers to look more threatening.

* * *

He's proud of her. She's only young, but even under such duress, she hasn't lost her dignity. Rage rose inside him as he took note of the bruising marring her delicate skin. She looks as if she hasn't eaten or slept for days. Knowing her, she was probably trying to think of ways to escape. That's the woman he knows and admires. She doesn't wait to be rescued like a damsel in distress expecting her perfect knight. She's a damsel who saves herself, which is just as well because he is very far from a perfect knight.

Barisan stands and offers up his seat to Sookie. Eric would have done the same if he didn't have to keep up the image of a cold ruthless prince. She smiles at the warlock in thanks as she sits down. She has never seemed more beautiful to the Viking. Never more like a queen. No matter what happens, she will not be cowed. She refuses to admit defeat.

Sophie-Ann invites him to stay for the night. He accepts. It's too close to dawn for him to leave, and with a warlock by his side, he can almost ascertain that nothing will happen to them during the day. Weres are strong, but weres are no match for a warlock, especially not an eight hundred year old warlock. He'd trusted Barisan to watch his back many a time during his daylight rest. He has never failed him yet. Him, and Fintan...

He needs to speak with Sookie about Fintan soon. Not here. Not under Sophie-Ann's roof. The queen of Louisiana has harboured dreams of daywalking for many years and it would be idiotic to mention Sookie's possibly connection to the Fae here. It will have to wait until after they return to New York, or at least get out of New Orleans.

* * *

I keep on thinking about Hadley as we drive to the airport. Her son. My cousin. I know that his father's name is Remy Savoy and that he lives somewhere up in Northern Louisiana, but that's not a lot of information. She didn't tell me much because I think she was afraid that I would tell Sophie-Ann, as I would ever sell out family. Still, I do see her point. If telepathy was such a sought after skill that Sophie-Ann would risk a diplomatic disaster to kidnap me, then the boy was in danger.

"Eric?" I say. "Is it difficult to find people you've never met when you know their name and their general location?"

"An interesting question, Sookie," says Eric, glancing back. He's riding shotgun, of course. "Although, I think you've chosen the right moment to ask it."

Huh?

"Who do you need to find?" asks Barisan. I haven't spoken to him much ever since he told me to tell Sophie-Ann that I was Eric's. I mean, I did thank him and try to ask him how he managed to transmit thoughts into my head. He dodged my questions and I was too tired to persist. Now I stare at him. He has no reason to help me, apart from having a mutual friend. Maybe he's just that kind of person?

"I need to find a Remy Savoy who lives in Northern Louisiana," I say.

"Why do you need to find him?" asks Eric.

I take a deep breath. Should I tell him, or should I not? Rationally speaking, I have no reason not to trust him with this information. I mean, I'm a telepath and he hasn't tried to force me into doing anything I don't want to do. However, there's a child involved. You just have to be very careful with children. But if I can't trust him with this information, then who can I trust? He's the only person who will possibly understand just what sort of danger this child is in, and he's the one person who can help.

"You know that vampire, Hadley?" I say. "She's my cousin. You know, the one who ran away from rehab."

"That's your cousin?" says Eric. "How did she end up here?"

I give him a quick rundown of what Hadley told me. "The reason she sold me to Sophie-Ann is because she didn't want Sophie-Ann to find her son, who's just like me," I finish.

"Then we really do need to get that boy," says Barisan.

"Kidnapping is illegal," says Eric.

"It's not kidnapping if people willingly come with you," I say.

* * *

Eric tells the cab driver to turn around and head back to a hotel. At first, I have no idea what he's trying to do, but the two guys seem to know what they're doing. I hate that they're keeping me in the dark, although I suppose it's for security purposes. Vampires might be out in the open, but no one really knows what they do. Then there's Barisan. Whatever he is, they're definitely not out in the open. I'm beginning to suspect that he's not just a telepath. I mean, not only can I not read his mind, I also don't even sense him if he doesn't want me to. Vampires are like voids, but he just blends into the background. The only reason I don't suspect him of being some ominous presence is because Eric trusts him, and I trust Eric's judgement.

The three of us check into one room. I'm very relieved when I find out that we're not staying the night, but rather just borrowing a place for some spell casting.

Yes, spells. "I'm a warlock," says Barisan after he's told me that he's going to do something weird and unscientific to locate Hadley's son. We're crowded around the bathtub, which has been filled halfway with water. The warlock asks me to put a drop of my blood into the water. I'm confused, but I comply, using Eric's fang to prick my finger. A red droplet wells from the wound. I let it fall.

Red tendrils dissipate into the water. Faint images appear, like a film of oil on the surface of the water. A house. A yard full of toys. A playground. The image shifts, and a sign appears on the surface of the water. 'Red Ditch Elementary School,' it says.

* * *

Red Ditch is a small working class town about two hours away from Shreveport, Louisiana. While I know that there are people living in poverty in the United States, I've never actually been to such a community. You hear all these horror tales about undereducated, unemployed and violent people and you naturally want to avoid them. I suppose there is some truth to those stories, but most of the time, stereotypes are very inaccurate.

As we drive through the main street of the town, I notice that many windows of the businesses have been boarded up. There's a bar and grill, a convenience store, a chemist and that's about it. Paint is flaking off the skeletons of buildings. People stare at our car as we drive past. Eric's chosen the subtlest vehicle he can stand, but it's still a shiny BMW. Of course, he's not awake to see all of this. He's resting in the trunk. I'm still amazed at how a six foot four Viking can fold himself into such a cramped place. It doesn't look very comfortable at all.

I keep an eye out for the house we saw in the bathtub as Barisan cruises through the streets at an alarming speed. Blatant ignorance of the road rules do not only apply to vampires, it seems. "What?" he asks when I glare at him and then look pointedly at the speedometer. "I'm French. We have no regard for authority and the rules, thus three revolutions."

"Has it never occurred to you that the laws are there for a reason?" I ask.

"The rules are not meant for people like us," he says. "And you can stop lecturing me. We're here." I haven't even realized it, but the house is in sight. The owner obviously has tried his best to keep it tidy. There's a swing set at the side of the front yard, and a couple of toys are scattered on the grass.

I can sense two minds inside. Immediately, I put up my shields in case the child is really telepathic as Hadley says he is. I don't want him to be alarmed by anything that he might pick up in my mind. I mean, he's very young and there are some things that children just shouldn't know about. I step up and rap sharply on the wooden door. It's been recently repainted a deep forest green.

Moments later, a man opens the door. He's in jeans and a flannel shirt, and he's barefoot. That's at two in the afternoon.

"Remy Savoy?" I ask. I know he is, but I'm just being polite.

"That's me," he says cautiously, but he doesn't feel threatened yet. I suppose neither Barisan and I look very threatening. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Hadley's cousin," I say, a little awkwardly.

His eyes widen. "Oh," he says after a pause. "Hadley never mentioned her family to me. I just assumed... I'm sorry, but she isn't here. I haven't heard from her in two years."

"I know," I say. "I've seen her."

"You have? Well, can you tell her...never mind. I don't what to say to her." He shakes his head. "Look at me. I've been forgetting my manners. Please, come in..."

"Sookie," I say. "And this is..."

"Hugh Montague," says Barisan. "I'm a friend of the family." _Hugh Montague_? He sounds like something out of Shakespeare.

'_What?' _he asks. _'Hugh is my uncle's name and some of my nieces married the Montagues.' _

I feel a little unsure about leaving a vulnerable Eric alone in the rented BMW's trunk, but Barisan assures me —telepathically, of course— that he's put about thirty thousand wards on it. He loves to exaggerate, that warlock, almost as much as he loves his alcohol. I'm surprised he can stay sober all day long, actually. Or maybe warlocks have spells to stop themselves from getting drunk.

Barisan and I step inside the little house. Remy offers us both drinks and we both accept iced tea. It's a southern staple, really. He asks us to wait in the living room whilst he pours the drinks. The furniture is worn, but clean and usable. A young boy of about four is sitting on the floor, completely engrossed in the afternoon cartoons, and he doesn't notice us until his father tells him to say hello to us.

"I can't hear them, Daddy," he says immediately, looking surprised.

Remy doesn't know what to say. The poor man has no idea what his son is, although he's trying to do his best by the boy. I can sense his worry. Gently, I let down my shields and reach out with my thoughts. '_Hello, Hunter_,' I think. Yes, I'll admit I read his father's mind to get his name.

"Hello," he says, looking back at me with wide inquisitive eyes. "You're very quiet. Not like the other people."

"Hunter," chides Remy, but the boy is curious.

"Mrs. Burgess was talking very loudly about a 'wee-na' and how much she likes it, but she won't tell me what a 'wee-na' is," says Hunter. His vocabulary is very advanced for a child his age. At least, that's what I assume. I don't actually talk to little children a lot. In my circles, they're at home with their nannies whilst their parents attend functions and galas. I was lucky that Gran took the time to take care of us in the evenings instead of leaving everything to the nannies and the tutors.

Remy turns red when his son tells us that. "I'm sorry," he says. "Hunter is...difficult." He thinks that Hunter might have a mental problem, and he feels really bad because he can't afford to take his son to see a psychologist or a psychiatrist.

"They think I'm crazy," Hunter adds. "None of the other kids wanna play with me coz they think I got cooties."

"Hunter doesn't have a mental problem, Remy," I say. His eyes widen even further as he stares, firstly at me and then at his son. He's wondering if it's a family trait that Hunter inherited from Hadley.

"Hunter is a telepath," I say. "He can hear other people's thoughts."

"I can't hear him," says the boy, pointing at Barisan.

"Hunter, it's rude to point," Remy scolds. "Do you really mean that he's some sort of..." Mutant? Monster? Superman?

"He's a boy with telepathic powers, that's all," I say. "He's still as human as the rest of us. The thing is, Remy, Hunters...abilities are coveted by other people. They'll want to try and get him and use him. He's vulnerable."

"What people?" demands Remy. He's suddenly very protective, and I know he would do anything, even give up his life, if it meant keeping his son safe. I have no answer for him. Vampire queens? I can't say that.

"People like the FBI, the CIA, the NSA," says Barisan. "Telepathy would be very useful for interrogating prisoners and monitoring the thoughts of the generally public. Then there are the less legal institutions. Terrorists, drug lords, the Mafia. The list goes on." The warlock is terrifying Remy.

"Why are you telling me this?" he whispers.

"Daddy, why are you scared?" asks Hunter. "Are there scary people coming to take me away? I don't wanna go."

"We're saying this because we can protect you. The both of you," I say.

"I don't understand," says Remy.

"I haven't been telling you the full truth," I say. "My name's Sookie Stackhouse. Of Hale Industries."

Finally, Remy recognizes me. "Oh my God," he whispers. "Hadley...Hale Industries..."

"If it's all right with you, I'd like for you to come up to New York," I say. I know he's just been laid off so there's really nothing keeping him here save for the house. "I can offer you a job. Money isn't a problem."

"What if I don't want to leave? What if I don't want to have anything to do with some blue bloods who think that they know better than us and that they're just better?"

"Do you know how it feels to be different from all the other children?" Barisan suddenly says in a low voice. "No, of course you haven't, because you weren't that child. You have no idea how it feels when they all shun you because they're scared of you. They won't play with you, they won't even stay within ten feet of you. You think that there's something wrong with you and it's your fault, although you have no idea why. You try to be like them, but it just doesn't work, and they mock your efforts. You're isolated, you're alone, and you don't really understand why even when you know the principles behind the reason. So you tell yourself that you're worthless, that you deserve to be treated that way because it's somehow your fault." Okay, this is beginning to sound personal. He sounds like he knows what it feels like to be bullied. I most certainly do, but I just didn't expect a warlock to have those same experiences. "You don't want that for your son, do you?"

"No, of course not," says Remy. "I want Hunter to be happy."

"Then trust us," says Barisan. "We know how to help him."

"I don't know..." says Remy. He is completely lost.

"Take your time," I say. "It's a big decision and I know it's hard."

"You would, wouldn't you?" says Remy wryly.

"Just don't take too long," says Barisan. "It isn't safe here."

* * *

"Why did you have to scare him like that?" I ask Barisan once we're back in the car.

"I want him to make the right choice by his son," says the warlock. "He means well, but he doesn't know how to deal with such gifted child."

"Some gift," I say. "Imagine hearing people's darkest thoughts...or perhaps you know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Sometimes gifts aren't what we want, but what we need," he says. "I didn't want any of this either, Sookie."

"Any of what?"

"This, Sookie. I wanted to be a historian. I didn't want this whole warlock thing." He pauses. "But, apparently, it's what I need in order to fulfil my purpose. We're all given what we have for a reason, even when we don't see it at first."

"Explain?"

"Well, take me. I didn't know why I was allowed to be born. By rights, I _shouldn't_ have been born. It was the twelfth century. My parents weren't married." Ah, so _that_ was where the ostracism account came from.

"I'm sorry," I say, even though I'm itching to know the details. What can I say? He sounds like one of those romantic heroes in those novels that I love, except he can be really arrogant sometimes.

"Don't be," he says. "It's made me what I am today. I don't regret that." He glances at me, and I know he knows I want the story. "It's not very romantic at all. My father was in love with the queen, but since he couldn't have her, he went and worked his way through just about every brothel in the Levant—that's Israel or Palestine to you— to try and forget her. My mother, however, reminded him of the queen so he took her as his mistress. After that, she got pregnant with me. Then the king died and the first thing my father did after the queen's mourning period ended was to go and marry her. Of course, there was no room for a mistress and a bastard son."

"He just abandoned you and your mother?"

"It wasn't abandonment. He made sure that we never lacked anything and that I would have a future either as a priest or a soldier. I never blamed him or my mother for doing what they did. But imagine being the bastard child of a prostitute. It wasn't easy. Things became better after I turned thirteen and my father made me his squire, but it's what happens to you when you're very young that affect you the most." I can't disagree with that. "Which is why I think it's important for Hunter to be around people who understand what it's like to be in his place."

"Thus the scare-mongering."

"Indeed. And I think it's working."


	9. Moving Mountains

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. They belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball.

**A/N: **Thanks for all the wonderful, supportive and inspiring reviews! There is a bit of crass dark humour in this chapter. I hope that no one is offended because that is not my intention.

**Chapter 9: Moving Mountains**

We wait for a couple of hours. The sun sets and I hear the trunk unlock as Eric climbs out. The three of us drive to a bar to grab something to eat —bottled blood, food, coffee and the ever necessary alcohol. I hope Eric drives, because I'm sure Barisan would fail a breath test unless he used some of his special warlock powers. Eric glares at him when he finds out that he's ordered garlic bread, but the warlock just shrugs and tucks in, whilst I feel uncomfortable. This, however, seems to be something they've been doing...I don't know. Perhaps since the invention of garlic bread.

It's a quiet evening. Remy is still going through the pros and cons in his head. Hunter isn't fussed about where he's going as long as he's not going to be taken away from his dad. All of a sudden, both warlock and vampire stiffen.

"There are cars speeding this way," growls Eric softly.

"Weres and vampires, both," says Barisan. In an instant, he's out of the car. I don't need to be able to read his mind to know what he's about to do. I'd have done the same thing if he didn't beat me to it. Eric starts the engine. Moments later, there's a clap and hiss as Barisan appears in the car with Remy and Hunter. Father and son are completely startled. Remy doesn't even have the time to demand what it's going on —although he was about to do it, I can tell— before Eric presses his foot —and the gas pedal— to the floor. After that, I don't think Remy was much in the mood for talking as we swing around corners at breakneck speeds and take off into the air when the car's wheels hit judder bars.

The cars are coming at us from every direction. At least, wherever there was a road. It's a high speed car chase in a little town. I wonder where the police are? I'm clinging onto my seatbelt for dear life. However, every time I think that we're going to crash into a tree or a power pole and once, an oil tanker, Eric manages to manoeuvre the car around those hazards. I'm so glad we chose a European car.

Bullets fly through the rear window of the car, shattering the glass. I scream as glass shards shower on me and the rest of us in the backseat. Hunter's clinging onto Remy and Remy's wondering whether it was the stupidest decision in his life to trust us.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to do this," Barisan says to Eric.

"Me too," the vampire replies. "But drastic times call for drastic measures, Frenchman."

Then we are hurtling through time and space; me, the vampire, the warlock, Remy, Hunter, the car. Everything. Colours blur around me. I feel like I'm riding a rollercoaster; something like Space Mountain. And then we are still again, and in a house somewhere in the Hamptons. My house, to be exact.

Hunter immediately throws up his dinner onto me. Me, and my McQueen blazer. Usually, I would have been devastated. I mean, you can't get these blazers anymore. However, I'm just glad we're all alive. Or relatively alive, if you take Eric into consideration. Remy looks green, and I think I look green too. The only one who's actually not reeling is Eric, actually, although one would expect that. He's supporting the warlock, whose face has turned a most unhealthy tone of grey. They were speaking in French and ribbing one another. I caught onto the fact that Eric was teasing him about not mastering the art of teleportation even after eight hundred years, and Barisan, who probably wasn't feeling that well, was telling him to shut up. They sound...

Well, like Jason and Hoyt.

Since I left home rather...unexpectedly, I didn't bring my keys with me. That doesn't really matter because I know where the spare key is hidden. No, it's not under a fake rock, but in a crevice between two real rocks which are surrounded by bushes.

"Come on in," I say. I haven't been here since Gran...well, since that night. Gran's will stipulated that Jason and I would share the house but Jason probably doesn't even remember it exists. It's not like he's been back here in a decade. I haven't had the time yet, but I've been meaning to talk to Jason about selling the house.

Inside, I take off my soiled clothes and change into a soft grey sweater that I bought from a little boutique on a whim and a pair of tailored linen pants. When I get back downstairs, I find that my guests have made themselves as comfortable as possible. Barisan is drinking whisky straight from the bottle and is looking a little better, and Remy's found the instant hot chocolate. The only one who doesn't have anything to drink is Eric.

"I'm sorry I don't have anything to offer you," I say to him, embarrassed at my poor hospitality. Hmm...should I offer him some of my blood? But no. I remember what happened the _last_ time he drank from me. After what's happened, I don't know how I can withstand such...strain. That's the strain on _his_ part, of course.

"It's all right," he says. "I have eaten tonight." That's true. He had a couple of those bottled bloods. The synthetic type, unfortunately. I take it they're like the blood version of hard tack. Vampires drink it to survive, but it's not enjoyable.

It seems that since...well, since we stopped pretending to date, I've become a lot more awkward around him. Perhaps it's because I have no real reason to see him often, yet I _need_ to see him. Which is why I avoid him. Doesn't make any sense, does it? Yeah, I'm a mental mess.

And unfortunately, there's a telepathic warlock sitting right there in my living room. I hear him choke on his Jack Daniel's, but I can't tell what he's thinking. I guess I'm getting a taste of my own medicine.

"I don't think I've thanked you for doing this," I say to Eric. It's really awkward. He keeps on coming to my rescue and I realize that he has no obligation to. I know he's interested in me sexually. He's propositioned me enough times —both overtly and covertly— that even if I were an idiot, I'd realize that he wanted to have sex with me.

"Well, I can't say it was a pleasure to have to play games with Sophie-Ann, but I'm glad you're not hurt," he says. He hesitates. I think there's something he wants to say, but he's not sure whether he should say it. That's not like the Eric Northman I know.

Hunter's complaint of tiredness distracts us. The poor little guy's been through a lot tonight, and he's been so brave. I mean, if I were him, I'd have cried. No, seriously. To be whisked away by people you've just met to a new place without even knowing how you got there? That's traumatizing for a kid. I show Remy the bathroom so he can get Hunter cleaned up and ready for bed.

When I come back downstairs, I find that Barisan's finished the entire bottle Jack Daniels, previously unopened, and considerately put the bottle in the recycling bin. The two of them are arguing in hushed voices and in some European language that I've never heard before. They stop when they see me.

"Sookie, we need to talk," says Eric.

"In private," Barisan adds.

I feel like I'm a rabbit being cornered by a lion and a lynx. Both of them are capable of killing me within the blink of an eye, and this whole needing to talk in private thing sounds serious. "Of course," I say.

There is no office in the Hamptons house. This is a work free zone. Occasionally, Gran might bring work here when there was no other choice, but even then, she worked at the kitchen table. Therefore, all the rooms in the house are pretty much bedrooms.

We slip into one of those and Eric closes the door. I suddenly imagine being sandwiched between those two men and suddenly, I feel like a completely different kind of prey. Oops. I should really be careful with what I think when there's another, more powerful telepath around. I sneak a glance at him to see if he's noticed, but if he has, he's not showing it.

"Well?" I say when neither of them speak.

"Sookie," Eric begins. "What does the name Fintan mean to you?"

_Fintan_? That's what they want to talk about? "I don't know," I say honestly. "How do you know about Fintan?"

"I saw his picture on your desk when I was searching for clues as to where you might have been taken," he says.

"Well, I have no idea who he is," I say. "Gran just gave me the key to this safe and she said that the things inside were going to give me the answers I need, but I haven't found any answers, except for maybe the fact that the man I thought was my grandfather isn't really my biological grandfather, and that maybe Gran isn't my biological grandmother either."

"You and Adele share too many similarities to not be related," says Eric. "But tell us about your grandfather."

"He wasn't anyone remarkable. I don't know a lot about him because he died before I was born when he tried to break up a brawl, but Gran always spoke fondly of him."

"When did they marry?"

"In April 1958," I say. "I mean, I thought Gran and Grandpa had an accident, but what with the genetic markers, I'm not so sure that it was Grandpa who Gran had an accident with." I look at the two of them. "Now, spill. Why are you asking me about this? What do _you_ know about this Fintan character."

"Fintan's my friend," says Eric. "Our friend."

Okay, this is a really huge coincidence. The guy I'm investigating just happens to be the friend of my friend? What are the odds?

"He's been missing for decades," says Barisan.

"Since 1958," adds Eric. "He just told us he had to disappear, and we never heard from him again. We've searched for him for years, but we never found any clue as to what happened to him, until now."

"Couldn't you have done some funny locating spell to find him?" I ask.

"Fintan is as good a practitioner of magic as I am," says Barisan. "Perhaps even better, because of what he is."

"Okay, you're confusing me," I say. "What is he? And more importantly, what's he got to do with Gran and me?"

"Fintan's one of the Fae," says Eric.

"What are those?" I ask.

"Fairies," says Barisan. "And when he told us he needed to disappear off the radar, he said it was because he was in love and he had to protect his own. That, my dear Miss Stackhouse, was in the March of 1958."

"That's the date on the picture. What's the significance?"

"When was your grandmother's eldest child born?" asks Eric.

"My dad? In December the same year...wait, so if Fintan cited the need to protect his girlfriend and 'his own' as being the reason he needed to disappear, then you think that..."

"Yes," says Eric. "We think that Adele was the woman Finn was talking about, and he just found out she was with child."

* * *

My head is reeling. Eric brings me a glass of water from the kitchen. I'm glad they made me sit down first or else I would have fallen onto the floor. Gran got pregnant by a fairy and then married Grandpa Stackhouse to cover it up? But it makes some sense. Grandpa Stackhouse didn't run in the same circles as Gran, and Gran certainly never managed some secret romance between the two of them. I mean, it's entirely possible that they did have a secret romance without the rest of the other people in their circles knowing, but then where does that leave Fintan and the genetic anomalies that I found in Dad and Aunt Linda's pictures?

"Tell me about Fintan," I say, a little more brusquely than I mean to. I'm just anxious to know.

"First, you need to know about the Fae," says Barisan.

"Don't write her a book," Eric warns. "And get to the point."

"I will, if you'll _let_ me, Viking, and one can never understand the situation if one is not acquainted with all the arguments."

"I just need a timeline and a blurb," I say.

"That is not going to do them justice," says Barisan. "The Fae are extraordinary creatures. People like me, the Magi, might have inherited the ability to manipulate the magic of the Universe, but the Fae were born of magic. There are four main clans; the Sky Faeries, the Water Faeries, the Earth Faeries and the Wind Faeries. Finn is half Sky Fae."

"What is the other half?" I ask.

"Human," says Eric.

"Once upon a time," says Barisan, "a faerie prince called Niall Brigant got a human woman pregnant. The woman had twins; Fintan and his brother Dermot. Niall was delighted and he intended to make Fintan his heir. Now, Sookie, you must understand that there's racism no matter where you go, although in this case, it's more specism."

Eric clears his throat, indicating that the warlock should stick to the topic on hand and not discuss the different types of discrimination that exist in society. "Some faeries don't like the thought of their blood being 'tainted' by the blood of other species. The Water Fae, in particular, are great believers of racial purity. You could say that they're the Fascist Faeries. They, of course, weren't pleased that about Finn and Dermot's existence, so they sent out assassins to hunt them down. In order to protect them, Niall sent them out of the Otherworld and to this world, but the assassins followed them here."

"There have always been Fae colonies in this world," Eric says. "Their numbers have been dwindling, and I believe their population is now in three digits."

"You can blame humans and vampires for that," says Barisan. "The vampires ate them and the humans destroyed their habitat."

"But you said Fintan is your friend," I say to Eric.

"He is," the vampire replies. "He saved my life when I was almost caught by humans, back when I was a young and inexperienced vampire. I couldn't very well eat the person who saved me."

"The thing is, Finn was a hunted man—faerie, whatever. He couldn't stay anywhere for long. It didn't matter to us. We were, all three of us, a trio of nomadic misfits. We sometimes had to fight off those faerie assassins. Sometimes, we almost didn't get out alive, but we managed to survive over the years. Then Finn decided to leave for the New World soon after the English established their first colony here. We went our separate ways. The Viking here headed to England and I stayed on mainland Europe. We kept in touch always, and if any of us were to need help, I have no doubt that the other two would have dropped everything to help him."

"Those were good days," says Eric with a nostalgic smile.

"And then Finn tells us, out of the blue, that he needs to disappear and he tells us not to look for him because he doesn't want to get more people into trouble," says Barisan.

"You didn't listen to him?" I ask.

"Of course not!" says Eric. "We were brothers in arms. If there was trouble to be had, then we would get into it together. But like the Frenchman said, we couldn't find any clue of Finn until I saw that picture on your desk."

"Do you really think he's my biological grandfather?" I whisper.

"Most likely," says Eric. "And if that's the case, then those faerie assassins will be coming after you and the rest of your family."

Well, that's just fucking brilliant, isn't it? As if it isn't enough that there are vampires after me, I now have Fascist Faeries on my tail.

* * *

It's a little difficult to find out that the guy I may or may not have a crush on is actually my biological grandfather's best friend. That, and my grandmother married my granddad to cover up a pre-marital affair that she had with a faerie prince. What does that make me anyway? If I did my fractions correctly, I'd be one-eighth faerie.

Faeries, apparently, are much higher than vampires on the supernatural hierarchy. Vampires also think they're uber-tasty and kinda go gaga over them, which would explain why Eric thought I tasted so good. He tells me that I'm very lucky I chose a vampire with such good self-control, or else I'd have most likely been drained.

My thoughts, of course, wander to Hunter, the four year old who's sleeping under my roof at the moment. If killer faeries are coming after all human-faerie hybrids, then they'll come after him too, and he's much more vulnerable than I am.

I get a quick rundown on how to defend myself against faeries. Iron, apparently, kills them. Lemon juice burns them the way silver burns vampires. Eric promises that he'll protect me and that he'll teach me how to fight. I'm glad, because I think those skills will come in useful. Barisan promises to stay for a while so that he can guard Hunter and me —and Jason— during the day when Eric won't be able to.

"I won't let anything happen to you, Sookie," says Eric once Barisan is gone. His voice is so soft and so soothing. Before I know it, his arms are wrapped around me and I'm clinging to him with my head resting on his solid cool chest. He rubs my back and kisses me on the top of my head. It's a good feeling; a feeling I haven't really felt since...well, since ever. I feel protected and treasured in a way I have never been before, and now there's a deeper sense of connection, as if we were destined to find each other. I guess he's the only link to my biological grandfather, and thus Gran in a funny pretzel-like way.

"God," I say as I force myself to push away from him. "You have to stop letting me hug you when I'm in need of comfort."

"Why?" he asks. "Do you not like it?"

"I don't want to be an imposition."

"Sookie, Sookie, you could never be an imposition. Would it make you feel better if I tell you that I do not mind embracing you at all?"

—

I wake up after ten the next morning in my own bed. It's a great feeling. Eric's obviously in the closet in the spare room that was allotted to him last night, and I can hear voices downstairs and smell coffee. Beautiful, rich coffee.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and hop in the shower. The hot water washes away the residual fatigue and weirdness from last night. It's a good day to be alive. I have my answers, Hadley's son is relatively safe for now, and so am I.

"Morning, Sookie!" Hunter chirps as I walk into the dining room, my hair still damp from my shower. He's eating Coco Pops. I'm not sure where Remy found them because the last time I checked, there were no sweet cereals in the Hamptons house. Our weekend breakfasts usually consisted of fried things. The kid seems to have forgotten last night's traumatic experience. His father, however, is still incredibly worried.

"Morning, Hunter, Remy," I say with a smile.

"Miss Stackhouse, you're just in time for toast," says Barisan as he emerges from the kitchen. I have to stifle a laugh. A warlock wearing Gran's pink checkered apron? He must be very certain of his masculinity. Or perhaps he's still under the notion that pink is a masculine colour, as it was back when he was young. "You look very beautiful today." I'm wearing black and white stripy printed crepe pants by Iro, a loose grey Alexander Wang t-shirt and a pair of red Miu Miu canvas wedge sandals. I've put on some concealer to hide my fading bruises and added red lips, as well as a pair of gold leaf earrings.

"I could say the same of you," I say. Somehow, he still manages to look good in that apron. I think it's the self assurance that comes with his age. It doesn't hurt that he's also genetically blessed, with those thick dark curls, intense warm brown eyes and brilliant smile. Tall, dark and handsome, with an air of mystery; that is Barisan. In fact, come to think of it, it would be hard to find a better looking trio of friends than him, Eric, and Fintan. Good looks is something they all have in common.

Okay. Focus, Sookie. Now is not a good time to ogle your perhaps-more-than-a-friend's friend, even if he does look good standing in your kitchen with a plate of toast in one hand. And he's a guy who knows how to cook breakfast _and_ go to the grocery store.

After breakfast, we plan our cover up story for what happened last night and the night before. How did Eric get me away from my kidnapper? We couldn't very well tell the media that he went and negotiated with the vampire queen of Louisiana. In fact, it would be best if we didn't mention Louisiana at all, in case they tied us to the crazy high speed car chase in Red Ditch. First thing first, Eric's going to have to contact the police when he wakes up this evening and tell them that he's found me. It would be too complicated to bring Barisan into the picture, especially since he teleported to the US from somewhere in Europe and therefore has no visa. It wouldn't do to say that I was kidnapped by someone sent by the Vampire Queen of Louisiana either, so Bill's going to end up as a jealous sexual predator who panicked when he realized that everyone was looking for me and left me by the side of the road, where Eric found me.

Barisan discreetly destroyed the BMW from Louisiana and got rid of any other telling evidence that I might have gone out of New York, including trace evidence. He's very thorough, that warlock; he tells me it comes with his job. "What _is_ your job anyway?" I ask him.

"Warlock is my real profession," he says as he salvages my soiled McQueen blazer with a spell. I could come to love this man.

"I thought that was your species."

"My dear Miss Stackhouse, _Magi_ is my species, and that's just a fancy name for mutated magical human. Warlock is the name for one of those of the magi who try to keep the peace between humans and supernaturals. We specialize in protecting the human race from their supernatural enemies, although that may soon be a thing of the past as humans and their advanced technology actually makes them a bigger threat to the supernatural community."

"_We_?"

"Yes, we. _We_ are an order, rather like the Knights Hospitaller or the Knights Templar."

* * *

He wakes to the sound of laughter coming from outside as the three adults entertain one teacup-sized human. He has vague memories of playing this game when he was a child, of hiding behind rocks and in the trees. Of closing his eyes and counting as the others hid. That was a long time ago.

He shakes off these memories the way a dog would shake water out of its fur. Thinking of such things would do him no good at all. He has no need to remember his human life, at least not right now, when there is work to be done.

Eric heats himself a bottle of blood in the microwave; someone has been to the grocery store and picked up a few things, including half a dozen True Bloods. It will have to do for now. The organic blends are only sold at specialty shops. He looks out the window as he sips on his blood. Sookie is running barefoot and laughing, her golden hair streaming behind her. She is so beautiful, but she seems to be unaware of it.

Barisan enters the frame and tackles her. She screeches as they both tumble to the ground, their limbs tangled and laughter creasing their faces. It really shouldn't affect him, but it _is_ affecting him. Barisan and Sookie have a lot more in common. They are a lot more human than he is. They both enjoy the sun, and they both understand what it means to be born different. It makes him feel uncomfortable as he considers this. It makes him angry, but he doesn't know why. Why _should_ he be angry? He has no claim her; at least, no real claim. When she said she was his, she was only doing it so that Sophie-Ann would let her go. He understands that very well. So why should he care if Barisan and Sookie develop something between them? She deserves her to be happy. He wants her to be happy.

Or, more specifically, he wants her to be happy with himself.

Where did that come from? Eric Northman does not form emotional attachments of that sort. He has friends, but he does not believe in committed relationships. His best 'relationship' was with Lucrezia Borgia, who had many lovers, but counted him amongst her best. That, of course, was to be expected since he is _the_ Eric Northman.

He tries to purge that feeling from his mind, but it is not working. He sees Barisan glance in his direction. There is no telling what the warlock is thinking; he's had too many years of practise, and he's inherited his father's talent for intrigue. If he does decide to compete with him for Sookie's attentions...

There's no knowing what will happen.

* * *

The reunion is tearful and joyful. People are relieved that I got home safely and the media want to know all about being kidnapped by a psychotic vampire. The picture that's being painted of Bill is not pretty. He's already being featured on _America's Most Wanted_. How's that for payback, huh? It doesn't get much worse than this. He'll have to put himself under house arrest if he doesn't want to get arrested. It's a pity we can't put Andre's face on the show too.

Remy and Hunter are in awe of everything. Hunter doesn't know why I need two houses, although he thinks they're very nice and he can't decide which one he likes better.

He does love pressing the buttons of the elevator though.

I'm thinking of giving them an apartment in my building. It's easier for Eric and Barisan and me to keep watch over them and make sure that nothing happens. Plus, the security is pretty good here. It's been improved since my kidnapping.

Eric's been rather quiet and distant tonight, although I have no idea why. I suppose he has a lot to worry about, what with presenting the story to the media _and_ dealing with the diplomatic fallout with Louisiana. I mean, he's not just any vampire businessman. He's a _prince_ who's a vampire who's a businessman. There's a lot of responsibility involved.

* * *

"Barisan, I need to talk to you," says Eric once they've returned to his residence. The warlock has no place to stay in New York, and he couldn't very well let his old friend stay at a hotel, or, Gods forbid, Sookie's apartment. His jealousy is irrational, and he knows it. She is just a woman, albeit a beautiful, brave woman who happens to be the granddaughter of one of his best friends. However, he can't stand the fact that his other best friend might want to court her. Barisan is probably less handsome than he is —based on the golden ratio and facial symmetry— but he is an Ibelin. He can probably charm the pelt off a wolf if he put his mind to it. "What are your intentions with Sookie?"

"Why?" asks the warlock. "What are _your_ intentions?"

"Stop answering me with questions," says Eric. He stares down at the other man. Barisan is not intimidated. He has known Eric too long to be intimidated. They have always competed with one another ever since they first met. Finn usually tried to mediate without much success. Competition and cooperation forms the basis of their friendship. At other times, Eric welcomed the competition, but not right now. This is too important to be yet another wager or a game. "Are you interested in her?"

"She's a beautiful and charming young woman," says Barisan. "What man with balls wouldn't be interested? Aren't you?"

"I want to sleep with her, if that's what you mean," says Eric. "And I enjoy her company."

"Really?" asks Barisan. "Well, then, that's very simple. We can share."

"Absolutely not!" The very thought of sharing Sookie makes him feel ill, and that's a difficult thing to achieve. She deserves better than to be passed around like a platter of meat! One thing is certain. If Barisan thinks of her as just another one night stand —or two night stand— to be dismissed once he tires of her, then he is _not_ going to let the warlock touch a single strand of hair on her head.

"You're being very selfish, Eric."

"She isn't something to be shared! She's..." He trails off.

"Yes?" says Barisan. He's practically gleeful now, and Eric realizes that he's fallen into a trap. That damn warlock was trying to get him to admit something. It's something he _definitely_ does not believe in, by the way. No way. There is no way in hell that he would feel like that. Ever.

"She's our friend's _granddaughter_, or have you forgotten, you depraved Frenchman?" asks Eric.

"I don't see what's wrong with sharing if she is amenable to the idea," says Barisan with a straight face. "Who knows? She might enjoy the variation." The warlock continues to stare at him, and there is a tense stretch of silence. Finally, Barisan sighs. "It's more difficult getting you to see the truth than it is to move mountains, Eric Northman."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Aren't you supposed to be smart? Figure it out for yourself. I can't spoon feed you everything."


	10. Not the Boy Next Door

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't anything that you recognize. They belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball.

**A/N: **Thank you for all the lovely inspiring reviews! You guys are the best!

**Chapter 10: Not the Boy Next Door**

Hunter settles into life in New York easily. His father does not, but I think Remy's resigned himself to the fact that his son is going to have a lot to do with the supernatural world in the future and this is the best thing he can do for him right now. Barisan spends a lot of time with Hunter, and has pretty much become his unofficial tutor, which is excellent, because the warlock has a couple of pretty impressive degrees, including a doctorate in archaeology. We've decided that it's better for Hunter to be homeschooled until he learns to pretend that he isn't hearing other people's thoughts. Barisan's been switching between talking to him physically and telepathically to help him differentiate between the two. He's so good with Hunter that I have to wonder if this isn't the first time he's taught a telepathic child.

With him watching Remy and Hunter —especially Hunter— I feel that it's all right to go about living my life as I always have. It's not like I can do anything more than what the warlock is doing. He's the expert when it comes to all this supernatural stuff. Me? I'm probably as out of it as Remy. Nah, I'm just kidding. Remy still can't get his head around the fact that his son's new teacher is a sorcerer. I think he'd deal better with a letter from Hogwarts, actually.

I get right back into my life after Bill Compton so rudely took me out of it. There's work that needs doing. Nathan Laskin might be taking care of the company now, but if I don't keep an eye on things, there's no knowing what can happen. Just because there might be some psycho fairies after me doesn't mean I'm going to barricade myself in my bower and not live life. If I did that, I might as well be dead. As in really dead, not vampire-style undead. I am no coddled princess who wastes her life and money on pointless extravagance. I mean, I like nice things, but I refuse to be known only for being a briefly pretty face and my non-fling with Eric Northman. Oh, and the kidnapping by America's Most Wanted Vampire.

In order to convince everyone that I'm fine, I dress especially carefully, choosing a professional looking white Chanel suit that used to be Gran's back in the sixties and a pair of aqua patent leather Prada heeled loafers. To that, I add my trusty gold Cartier watch and select a briefcase from my rows upon rows of bags.

Everyone at Hale Industries is glad to see me, especially Nathan, who looks as if he hasn't slept in days. "I'm so glad you're back, Miss Stackhouse," he says to me. I soon find out why. Jason's purchased a great percentage of the shares at a very low price and somehow gotten himself a cut of the company. I can't believe what I'm hearing. Jason Stackhouse buying shares? It would be more believable if the sun rose from the west.

Immediately, I'm suspicious. Now that I know all about vampires and glamouring, it's possible that someone glamoured Jason to buy those shares. Or perhaps there are other creatures out there who can do mind control. I don't know.

I make a note to arrange a meeting with Jason after I check up on all the other departments to make sure that things are running smoothly. I have a feeling that he's been trying to avoid me. Jason wasn't there to welcome me home. I try calling him on the way home, but I get sent to his voicemail. I try going to his apartment too, but his housekeeper informs me that she hasn't seen him for a couple of days. Considering what he's done, I guess he'd be busy, or maybe he just doesn't want to talk to me. I'm sorry to say that I'm hurt by this. I mean, it's probably not Jason doing this —fingers crossed— but some other person who is doing this through Jason. However, I'm only human.

I flop onto my bed and cover my eyes with my hand. It's exhausting, being in the middle of a family financial struggle, or whatever this is.

That's how Eric finds me tonight. He read about the shares on the internet after he woke up shortly before dusk —and couldn't do anything except mill about in his light proof room— and the first thing he did after the sun set was come and find me. "Hello, Sookie," he says from the doorway of my bedroom.

"Hey," I say. I'm glad to see him, although I'm surprised he isn't at Fangtasia.

"Pam can handle it tonight," he says when I ask him about it. "Are you all right?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" I ask.

"Well, you were just betrayed by your brother."

"I don't think it's something that Jason wanted," I say, and I tell him my theory.

"It's not entirely impossible," says Eric. "And I have to admit that whoever planned this would have put a lot of thought into it. I'm impressed, and aggravated."

"Why aggravated?" I ask.

"Because I should have expected that someone would think of using your company to get to you."

"How would that work?"

"Well, you are upset, are you not?"

"I'm upset because it's my brother who's involved, even though this other part of my mind knows that it's most likely not him. I'm not upset because I'm going to lose money or anything. Money's important, but it's not everything. I'm really more worried about my brother." I pause. "Do you think a vampire is behind this?"

"It's possible," says Eric. "But I would need to see your brother to be sure. Vampires are not the only ones who can exert control over the minds of humans."

It's my worst fear come alive. "And if it isn't just a vampire?" I ask.

"Sookie, you are thinking too far ahead," says Eric. He pulls me to my feet. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"To find the Frenchman in the Museum of Natural History so he can locate your brother, and then we will confront him."

* * *

Hunter is absolutely fascinated by what Barisan is doing. I can hear him asking the warlock questions inside his head, and Barisan is answering telepathically. I just don't hear those answers. I'm actually surprised that Barisan wants Hunter to see this, because it doesn't look particularly child friendly, but he insists. Like that other time when we located Hunter, I prick my finger on Eric's fang —the healing qualities of vampire saliva makes his fangs much better than any old needle.

"Ick!" says Hunter. "Does it hurt, Sookie?" His father is thinking the same thing, but is too diplomatic to say it out loud.

"Not very much," I say as I let the red droplet fall. We're using the basin this time. Eric carefully licks my finger afterwards, relishing the taste. Hunter makes gagging noises in the background, and Remy is both repulsed and fascinated. He's never seen a vampire before he met Eric.

My blood disperses into the water. Hunter's eyes are glued to the basin as Barisan touches the surface of the water with one finger. An image of Jason appears. He's in bed —luckily Eric has a quick reaction, and he whisks Hunter away from the basin before the boy registers that his cousin is naked in bed with a woman.

The woman is dark-haired and beautiful, with long lithe white limbs and a body that any supermodel would be proud to have.

Jason turns over, and I catch a glimpse of his neck. There are bite marks.

* * *

It's difficult to watch my brother have sex with a vampire, especially since I know he would never do it of his own volition. Although, considering the vampire's beauty, maybe he's willing to let go of his principles. I don't know. However, I am quite certain that he has been glamoured. The vision's focus shifts, and I'm glad. There's only so much I want to know about my brother. It's like a panning shot. The 'camera' pans to the window, and then slowly wanders out of the bedroom so that we can look out the other windows.

Eric grabs a map out of my desk drawer —I have to ask him how he knows where I put everything— and marks out the three landmarks that we see. The two men then do some complicated mathematical things involving trigonometry and geometry. I catch the words 'cosine' and 'cotangent' and 'hypotenuse' and 'radians'. They remind me of those nightmarish days in math class.

Finally, they come to a conclusion. "Come, Sookie," says Eric. "We're going."

* * *

"Eric," I say. "Why is Barisan staying with you when he's supposed to be guarding us?"

"I thought...it wouldn't be right for him to be an imposition on you," says Eric. "He's my friend. I should be the one to offer him hospitality." He's not telling me the complete truth.

"He's only here because he wants to keep us safe," I say.

"I thought you would enjoy your usual independence." I don't really believe that's the real reason he doesn't want Barisan to stay with me, but neither of them have been very forthcoming about it. "He has placed wards around your building, so he will know if anyone tries to get in. Don't worry. He might accidentally teleport cars when he doesn't mean to, but Barisan does know how to set up good wards. No one with malicious intentions can get past them, human, vampire or otherwise."

"He's that good?"

"He's over eight hundred years old. He'd better be good."

He's taken his silver Volvo because the Bloodsucker is just too recognizable these days. We don't exactly want the hordes of paparazzi to alert the other vampire to our presence. The element of surprise makes for an excellent advantage.

According to Eric and Barisan's calculations, Jason's in Brooklyn. Even at this time of night, there are plenty of cars on the bridge. The lights of the city outshine the dim stars, which are veiled by smog. Eric pulls up outside an old-fashioned apartment block, probably built sometime prior to the fifties. The doorman eyes us warily. I suppose we're not really dressed for Brooklyn. I'm still in my Chanel suit and Eric is...well, he's Eric Northman.

The vampire strides into the lobby as if he owns the place, and the doorman doesn't question us. I don't think he dares to question us. I cast out my thoughts in order to search for Jason. I find him glamoured on the sixteenth floor. There are four vampires with him. I tell this to Eric. He raises an eyebrow at me as if to say, "Four only?" That Viking. His arrogance is unbelievable. It's part of what I love about him.

...Did I really think that? Never mind. I don't love him. Not _any_ part of him. Not at all. I just want him.

There's a difference. I mean it. There really _is_ a difference.

All right, maybe I do love him a bit, but _not in that way_.

We make a plan. Or rather, I make a plan and Eric vetoes just about every idea I have. The main thing is that he doesn't want me to go inside that apartment in order to invite him in, but he needs an invitation to go in and get Jason. In the end, we decide that we do need the warlock. Eric calls Barisan, who walks in something like five minutes later, a little green around the gills and bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand.

"What will you do without me?" he asks.

"Find another dispensable human," Eric retorts.

"Ouch," says Barisan blandly.

"Stay behind me," Eric says to me once we're on the sixteenth floor, which is where Jason is being held. As if I need to be told. I may be headstrong, but I'm not an idiot with absolutely no sense of self preservation. Right, maybe I _am_ a bit lacking on that front, since I used myself as bait for a serial killer, but still. I know how dangerous vampires can be.

Eric kicks the door. It splinters upon impact and flies open. Wood shards shoot in every direction, although most of them shoot inside the apartment instead of outside, which is just as well. Barisan leaps into the apartment. "Entrez!" he shouts. I suppose it's easier to use his native language. I follow Eric inside, careful to stay behind him at all times. I recognize three of the four vampires; they're the trashy trio who interrupted my 'date' with Compton. I suppose, in retrospect, I have to thank them. If they hadn't taken Compton away, I would never have been able to talk to Eric without his interference, and I don't think I'd have ever found out about how much a bastard that 'southern gentleman' really is.

"You!" the trashy female vamp snarls when she sees me. She's in sparkly hot pants and a black corset, along with seven inch Perspex platform wedges.

"Plastic shoes are so last season," I can't help telling her. Although, what happens next makes me wonder if she's better dressed for these situations. I mean, a white vintage Chanel suit and Prada heels in a vampire fight? That's just asking for your clothes to be ruined.

Luckily, my new warlock friend works better than stain remover. I don't think that's how you're supposed to think of your friends, but it's the truth.

Eric makes a beeline for the strange female vampire who was having sex with my brother in the vision. She screeches in an inhuman way and tries to get out of his way, but he is stronger and faster, and just a better fighter overall. He catches her by the throat and pins her to the wall.

The other three vampires try to attack him. Well, the two males do. The female comes at me and Barisan, thinking that it would be easy to take on two humans. Her mistake. A tiny ball of fire, about the size of my favourite diamond studs, fly from Barisan's fingers. She immediately ignites. Her scream is so terrible that I immediately clap my hands to my ears.

"Aren't people going to hear this?" I demand. I don't know how we're going to explain this scene to the police. That this is just a party gone wrong? I doubt they'd believe that. They're not quite that dumb.

"I have a sound shield around this apartment," says Barisan. He seems to be enjoying this a little too much. "No one will hear anything."

Eric easily subdues the other two vampires by breaking their backs. I wish I could tell you what he did, but I didn't see. When he fights, he moves too quickly for the human eye to follow. All I know is that there are two male vampires lying on the ground, unable to move their legs and in a great deal of pain. Eric's foot is firmly planted on the throat of the tattooed one. I'd hate to play Twister with him. He'd be really good.

"Sookie, go find your brother," says Eric. "We'll be out here waiting."

I venture down the dim corridor. There are three rooms in the apartment. I sense Jason in one of those rooms. He's frightened and angry. More alarming is the fact that he has this inexplicable desire for the dark-haired female vampire. Something is calling him to defend her. He lunges at me when I open the door. I'm caught completely unawares and I topple to the floor. His hands go around my neck and my scream is cut off.

He doesn't manage to choke me, however. One moment, he's straddling me and strangling me, and the next moment, he's dangling from Eric's hand.

"Eric! Don't kill him!" I say.

"Give me a very good reason why I shouldn't," the vampire growls back.

"Because that would negate the entire purpose of coming here to rescue him. Not good business." All right, maybe I should have said that it's because Jason is my brother, but Eric is the practical sort, and this sort of reason would appeal to him more. Plus, I think he's rubbing off on me.

Jason is kicking and thrashing and his face is turning purple. Eric finally sets him on the ground, but he keeps a tight grip on him. I can see the mess that is Jason's mind. Not only has he been glamoured, he's also inexplicably obsessed with the dark haired female.

"She's bound him to her," says Eric grimly.

"I don't get what you mean," I say with a frown.

"Are you two going to come back out here, or are you going to take your sweet time?" calls Barisan from the front of the apartment. "It's not that I can't deal with four vampires on my own, but I'd rather not stay in Brooklyn for so long."

"Stop being such a snob," says Eric.

"I am distantly related to the kings of France and Jerusalem, my friend. It's in my blood to be a snob."

"You're the bastard son of the son of a bastard," says Eric. "You don't have any right to be a snob, and I need you to work your magic."

Eric drags Jason out. I wince on my brother's behalf. He's going to get some awful bruises come morning, and chances are he won't remember how he got them.

The dark haired female —Lorena, I later find out— is still pinned to the wall, although it's now by magic rather than Eric's hand. The plaster behind her head has cracked. "Darling," she says in a voice that makes me shiver. "Look what your sister and her friends have done to me."

"Let her go, you motherfuckers!" Jason shouts. He struggles against Eric, but that's as effective as trying to move Mount Everest.

"I see," says Barisan, raising an eyebrow. "Well, we are going to need some time, and some blood." He calmly walks over to where Lorena is and takes out what looks like a common syringe. She snarls at him, but his magic keeps her from moving. This only makes her angrier. I don't think that a lady should record all the words that she uses to describe us and our parentage. They really shouldn't be repeated. "If you continue like this, I might take away your voice as well, Mademoiselle Krasiki. And your fangs. I could use a new belt buckle."

That shuts her up. I think she's realized by now that it's not a good idea to insult someone who can restrain you without touching you.

"What are you going to do with the rest of them?" I whisper to Eric, indicating the four defeated vampires.

"Take them back to Fangtasia and hand out their sentences," Eric. "They attacked the prince. That's treason." I don't ask him anymore things about the vampire judicial system after that. Going by the human punishment for treason during the feudal age, I think those vampires aren't going to see another night. And if they do, they're going to wish they didn't.

Barisan casts a binding spell over the vampires so that although no one can see their bonds, they're effectively shackled. Eric calls Pam and tells her that a batch of prisoners is going to appear in the basement of the club. They disappear with a clap and a hiss. Teleportation, obviously. It's the best way to transport prisoners; no one gets a chance to break them out en route. I didn't know the club had a basement before tonight. I guess it works well as a dungeon. Granted, Fangtasia is very far from a castle.

I go home with Jason and the warlock. I'm scared of what's going to happen. Eric needs to return to the club to mete out vampire justice, so he can't accompany us. We take his car. Jason is also bound with a spell, only Barisan gagged him as well, and now the only thing he can do is move his eyes. If looks could kill, I'd be dead.

We sneak up into Jason's apartment via service elevators. It wouldn't do to let the new doorman see 'Mr. Stackhouse' being carried over the shoulder of a stranger, especially not in this state of undress and with me in their company. I don't want him to think that we're holding some sort of bondage fetish party. The media would love it, of course, but I've had enough scandal to last me a lifetime.

"Why don't you go upstairs?" Barisan suggests once we deliver Jason to his apartment. I go in first to dismiss the help, of course. Don't want them seeing any of this either. "Pour yourself a nice drink, have a shower, listen to loud music."

"Why?" I ask.

"Because bond breaking is not pretty," he replies.

* * *

I can't sleep all night because I'm so worried about what's going to happen to Jason, but I don't really want to know what's happening to him, so I have to keep my shields up. It's not until rush hour that I finally fall asleep.

When I wake up, it's two in the afternoon. I think I may have successfully become nocturnal. Gran would have my hide if she were around to see this. Actually, I'm not sure who would be in more trouble. Jason, for falling prey to a malicious vampire's wiles, or me for adopting the vampire schedule. Speaking of Jason, I pick up my phone to call him immediately, except I find a pink post-it stuck on the screen.

'_Jason thinks he got stoned for a few days,'_ says the note. '_So he doesn't remember anything at all.'_

Well, that's one way to deal with missing memories, I suppose. I call my brother anyway, to see how he's doing. He picks up after three rings. "Sook," he says. I hear the TV in the background. "I can't talk right now. The game's on."

"Jas—" I begin, but he's ended the call. Honestly, his phone manners are worse than a vampire's, and that's saying a lot. I stare at my phone, and then decide that if that's how he's going to treat me, then I'm not going to worry about his affairs. Not unless he gets himself in a life or death situation again, at any rate.

I get Norma Jean to make me a bowl of oatmeal —lots of cream and syrup— and I sip my coffee as I check my text messages. There's one from Eric, asking me to go to Fangtasia tonight. This means getting dressed up again. Life with vampires requires a lot of wardrobe planning. You don't really want to give the wrong idea, but you don't want to stick out too much either. And now that I know I'm extra-tasty, I have to be extra careful.

I momentarily consider going out to get a pair of harem pants, the least sexy item of clothing I can think of. Then I shake my head. Pam would have me executed for crimes against fashion if I turned up at Fangtasia —or anywhere else— looking like that. Instead, I opt for a pair of skinny khaki J-Brand cropped pants with zip details, with a Proenza Schouler black and white tie-dye t-shirt and an oversized chunky knit cardigan by Stella McCartney. For shoes, I wear my Alexander Wang stiletto booties with gold buckles. The only jewellery I'm going to be wearing is a pair of gold Chanel studs with the interlocking C's and seed diamonds, and my gold Cartier watch. I top the look with a black Phillip Lim satchel because it's so sensible that no one can possibly think that I'm a...erm...donor. Not that any donors wear beige Stella McCartney cardigans. Any colour other than black is not handy for donors who tend to get blood on their clothes, whether it's from being kicked or bitten.

I spend the rest of the afternoon putting on primping. I don't want to look like I made an effort, but I want to look good enough to impress and to stand out from the rest of the women at the club. I want someone in particular to notice me. I put on nude lipstick —with lip gloss at the middle to make my lips look more pouty— and create a smoky eye with brown and gold eyeshadow. White eyeliner goes on the inner corners of my eyes to make them look bigger, and I put bronzer just underneath my cheek bones to make them seem higher than they are. The last thing I do is put my hair into a messy ponytail, using hairspray to give it more volume. There. I look like I chose my outfit in five minutes even though I spent three hours on it. It's perfect.

Pam is manning the door again, and she's wearing the exact same earrings as I am, only hers are in white gold instead of yellow gold. She winks at me; sisters in Chanel. "Sookie, you're like a ray of sunshine in this place," she says. I notice she's wearing a beautiful leather blazer and wool blend pants, both in black, although she's wearing just a lacy black bra underneath the blazer instead of a blouse. Still, it's a lot classier than her usual 'club' fare. I know that usual Pam fare consists of pastel suits and classic pumps most of the time, although she can get wild. Her tailored black tuxedo pants allow her to show off her beautiful Louboutin pointy-toed stiletto pumps with spike detail and bows at the front. Apart from her earrings and her red lips, her fangs are her only other accessory.

"Has there been a change of dress code at Fangtasia? I ask.

"Black and provocative are the keywords, and I think I'm very provocative." says Pam with a grin. I can't disagree with her. Many of the men in the queue are mentally undressing her already and thinking of kinky things to do with stationery. I'm never going to look at my Parker ballpoint pen the same way ever again. "I can't be dressing in that latex shit if you're going to come around in your McQueen and Gucci all the time."

"It's McCartney and Wang this time," I say. "What does Eric think of your interpretation of his dress code?" I can't say he'd be happy about it. It's ruining his carefully cultivated image of vampire culture which he's been marketing to ignorant humans ever since vampires came out of the coffin.

"He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt, so he can't complain," says Pam. "Although he tried. Go on in. He's been waiting for you."

Eric's on his throne surfing the net on his Blackberry, the way he was when I first met him. He catches my eye and indicates that I should sit in his private booth. Ginger comes by with a gin and tonic. On the house, of course.

Ten minutes later, the gorgeous Viking sex god —who must never know that I think of him that way— slides into the seat opposite me.

"I haven't found any undercover cops or extremists," I say to him as a way of greeting. He isn't much for hellos and goodbyes anyway. I think he's rubbing off on me. "Everything's as it should be."

"Actually, they're not," he says. "The vampire who glamoured your brother and forced him to bond with her is called Lorena Krasiki. She's Bill Compton's maker."

"Bill's maker? What does she want with Jason?"

"He enlisted her help in bring you down," says Eric. "Of course, Bill Compton doesn't know the next thing about business, so it is probably his stupidest scheme to date."

"You didn't ask me to come to Fangtasia just so you could tell me how stupid you think Compton's plan is, did you?"

"No, I did not," says Eric. He orders me another drink —a martini, this time. Belinda brings it over and I think she bows to me. It's either that, or she's bowing to Eric. Eric, of course, ignores her. "I asked you to come so I could ask you a favour. I would have gone to you, but I have floor duty tonight, and this cannot wait."

"What is it, Eric?" I ask.

"A friend of mine has gone missing in Texas, and they suspect that he was taken by the Fellowship of the Sun."

"The fanatics?"

"The very same. Sookie, I need you to help me locate him and get him back."

He explains that it's a very delicate situation. Vampires do not want to aggravate the humans without substantial proof. However, all Eric has is a hunch. He wants me to help him find proof —and hopefully his friend along with the proof.

"Is Barisan coming with us?" I ask. I can't help but think that the warlock would be very useful in situations such as this. I mean, he can teleport us out of trouble if necessary.

"He can't interfere," says Eric. "I have asked him. He says that his duty is to protect the human race from their supernatural enemies. Unless there is enough evidence to prove to his grandmaster that humans threaten the existence of the supernatural community, he cannot side with supernaturals against humans, on pain of death."

"That's not fair," I grouse.

"That's what I said, but he's only a field agent. He doesn't make the rules."

"Well, I suppose he should stay behind to keep an eye on Hunter and Remy." I know he's also looking for Fintan, but I don't see the need to mention it. Eric's already got one friend to worry about. He doesn't need to be reminded of his other missing friend. "So it's just us two?"

"Yes, just us two." He gives me a mischievous smile that makes me melt from the inside out. "Don't we make the perfect partnership?"


	11. Playing With Fire

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. They belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball.

**A/N: **Sorry for the late update. I've just started journalism school and then survived an earthquake. Please keep the people of Christchurch, New Zealand, in your prayers and thoughts. Many people remain missing, trapped beneath rubble, and a lot of people have lost loved ones.

**Chapter 11: Playing With Fire**

It doesn't matter whether there's a vampire who needs rescuing or a vampire queen who needs taking down. Social obligations matter very much on the Upper East Side. Which is why I have to attend a brunch hosted by the Mortimers the next morning.

The Mortimers are also in property business, although they mostly concentrate on government contracts for building state housing. I have to call Sal —who used to be Gran's personal assistant and is now mine— to refresh my memory on why they're hosting a brunch. It turns out it's a celebration for Old Mrs. Mortimer's birthday. She's ninety eight and doesn't want a birthday dinner because she's afraid the vampires will come and get her.

I panic for a moment because I've totally forgotten and now I have to rush and get a bouquet arranged in two hours. I woke up at nine because I went to bed really early this morning, having spent all of last night awake and discussing the upcoming trip to Texas with Eric. Important details like hotel bookings needed to be sorted out, or else the vampire would have gotten us one room. His excuse was that it would be easier for him to look out for me in possibly unfriendly territory if we shared a room. I ended up compromising and he booked us a suite with two bedrooms and separate bathrooms. I don't want to go in one evening and find a naked six foot four Adonis in my shower. Not that I would be that devastated.

But it wouldn't be proper. No, it definitely wouldn't. It wouldn't help my resolve to stick to my principles either.

Barisan finds me panicking about the flowers when he comes up to say good morning. He does it every day before he goes and takes Hunter out to explore New York and teach him history slash magic slash telepathic control. I'm sorry to say that I am in only my robe with my hair hanging in wet rats' tails around my face. It's very bad hospitality, I know, but Barisan's seen me covered in vomit before, so I don't think it's such a big deal.

"Sookie, I don't think I've ever seen you look so awful before," he tells me.

"Shut up," I snap at him. "It's a crisis!"

"If it's flowers you need, you can just leave it up to me," he says with a raised eyebrow. "I don't see what's such a big deal."

"The big deal is that it needs to be perfect because it's not just a gesture of politeness. It's to show that I'm considerate and that I took _time_ to think about the bouquet—"

"I get it, Sookie," says Barisan, placing his hands on my shoulders to calm me down. "My stepmother was a princess and a dowager queen. I know all about keeping up appearances. Now, you just leave it up to me, and concentrate on making yourself look fabulous, all right?"

"You don't have the same taste in flowers as Eric, do you?" I ask suspiciously. "Because while I'm grateful for the flowers he sent me when I was in hospital, I don't think Mrs. Mortimer would like them very much."

"Did he send you one of those obscene monstrosities?" asks Barisan. Huh. He must know Eric very well indeed if he knows what flowers I'm talking about before I've even described them. I nod. "Finn showed them to him as a joke. Now they're his personal pick up 'line', or should I say, pick up bloom. If there's a girl he wants to sleep with, he sends them a bouquet with one of those flowers. Strangely enough, it works. If I were a girl, I'd have slapped him, but I guess I don't have a single feminine bone in my body."

I don't tell the warlock that Eric sent me an entire bouquet consisting _only_ of those flowers, and there were a dozen of them. The implication is scaring me a little. Does Eric want to sex me to death or something? Granted, I somehow inherently know that he wouldn't make me do anything I don't want to do, but still.

Barisan promises me that he will find something appropriate for a vampire-phobic old lady from a blue blood family before he leaves me to 'making myself look fabulous'. Those are his words, not mine. I only altered the reflexive pronoun.

Since it's a formal conservative —sort of— brunch, but I don't want to be too formal because it is _brunch_, which really says it all. It's supposedly a casual event where close friends are invited. In actuality, it's like all gatherings in the Upper East Side; a political display. The Mortimers are old blue bloods but they've never garnered as much attention as...say, the Hales. They don't have the benefit of good genes, and photogenic people get a lot more attention.

Thus Jason's status as a permanent resident on page six.

I settle on a simple clean melon red Narciso Rodriguez sheath with an exposed zip at the back. The neckline is high, but the tailored fit means that it's subtly sexy. I spice things up with a pair of Roberto Cavalli sling back zebra print sandals with a wedge heel that show off my pedicure —pastel green— nicely. Normally, I'd wear a statement necklace with such a clean dress, but I don't want to take any attention away from my statement shoes, so I add a touch of metal with a gold Michael Kors envelope clutch with an embossed python print and my trusty Cartier watch, as well as my Chanel studs. I put my hair up in a French twist and grab a sleek knee-length beige Stella McCartney coat that has only two buttons which are more for decoration than anything else and a split drop waist.

The thing is, looking fabulous is fine for these things, but since I'm a girl of a certain age, and apart from my non-fling with Eric, I've been totally single all these years, and people have started to ask me whether I've got a nice boy to settle down with or not. Seriously, in this day and age, people still expect girls to find boyfriends, get engaged, settle down, and pop out a couple of children. Girls who don't want this are considered to be emotionally immature, or something. At least, that's what a few people have told me when I expressed very little interest in getting married for the sake of being married. Granted, those same people called me to congratulate me on breaking up with Eric because nice girls don't go out with vampires, no matter how generous and gracious and gentlemanly they are. That goes to show just how much they know.

Still, I don't really want to face those questions. Since my go-to date would fry in sunlight, no matter how weak said sunlight is, I'll just have to go beg someone else to be my escort today. Luckily for me, there is a perfectly handsome warlock arranging a bouquet for me when I step out into my living room. I had no idea that he knew anything about floral arrangements. I suppose you learn a lot when you've lived for as long as he has.

"I hope you wear something a little more interesting tonight," he says when he sees me.

"You don't like it?" I ask.

"You look like a well to do housewife. My stepmother would wear something like this if she were alive in this day and age."

"Well, thanks," I say sarcastically. "And I was about to ask you to come with me. As my plus one."

He raises an eyebrow. I wish he'd stop doing that. Eyebrows are very expressive, but he ought to use another group of facial muscles from time to time. "I wanted to take Hunter to Ground Zero today," he says.

"That's morbid," I say. "Hunter's four."

"There are certain things that he needs to understand." I'm not sure how you can explain religious extremism, the impact of imperialist consumerism, and the roots of terrorism to a four year old. Granted, Hunter can read minds, so he's much more knowledgeable than your usual preschooler, but still, there has to be a limit to his analytical ability. A lot of _adults_ don't get it.

"Well, can you leave the depressing history slash political slash social lesson for another day?" I beg. "Please?" I mean, it's gotta take him at least ten years to teach it, and I'm not sure that Hunter will understand it even then.

"Are you really that desperate for a date? That doesn't sound like you, Sookie."

"I need a _pseudo_-date; arm candy to stop the old ladies from telling me just how much I need to find a nice boy and pop out a couple of kids." It takes a bit of persuasion on my part, but I finally get him to see my point. He's obviously never had elderly neighbours and relatives nag him about finding a wife.

Unfortunately —for me, at any rate— the paparazzi spot my car coming out of the underground parking lot and they follow us to the Mortimers' building. They even manage to snap a couple of shots of Barisan and me before we disappear inside. I can already imagine the headline. 'SOOKIE FINDS NEW MAN — AND YES, HE'S ALIVE!' As if real love can be stopped by something as trivial as death. Eric's not even really dead. He just happens to show corpse-like traits during the day.

People gush over Barisan when I introduce him to them as Hugh Montague. He's decided that he comes from England —apparently some his relatives, the real Montagues, moved there during the fifteenth century or something rather, so it would be easy to pretend to be one of them. It gets a little uncomfortable at times, especially when people gush too much about what a lucky girl I am to find such a lovely man —those are usually the women who are ogling the warlock's physique; I wonder how they would react if they ever saw Eric without a shirt. Granted, they're not likely to, because they're too narrow-minded to want to associate with non-humans so they would never get the chance to see Eric wearing one of his outrageous Fangtasia costumes.

"I'm glad you've come to your senses at last, Sookie my dear," says Mrs. Fortenberry. "Your new man is _such_ a dish!" Seeing as Barisan's older than Mrs. Fortenberry, it doesn't seem _as_ inappropriate as if she were commenting on a man my age, but she doesn't know that.

Even Arlene congratulates me on finding a new man. This is the first time she's spoken to me since I started 'dating' Eric. "He's so much better than that undead demon," she tells me. As if she can say anything; she's the one who almost married a serial killer. "I'd have him myself if he weren't taken."

My cheek muscles are sore by the time it's considered polite to leave, which is sometime after twelve. It didn't help that I heard just about every kinky thought concerning the warlock, and I'm sure he heard them too. I'm just glad he doesn't say anything about it because there are some things that I wouldn't care to repeat. I know Barisan fits the romantic hero description —appearance-wise, at any rate, being tall, dark and handsome— but some things are just too much. I mean, Mrs. Fortenberry's fantasy? Enough said.

When I get back home, I throw myself into packing. I have no idea how you should dress when you're meeting important vampires. Eric seems to be fine with whatever, but I'm slowly beginning to realize that he's not really a typical vampire. I mean, he managed not to eat Fintan even though fairies are so irresistible to vampires. Plus, he doesn't treat me like I'm livestock the way some other vampires do. Granted, I am his best friend's granddaughter, but still.

I pack a few classic items that can't go wrong, like a Little Black Dress. Usually, I'm a Little White Dress kind of girl, but white and vampires really don't go together, especially not if there is a chance that violent negotiations will be involved. That lovely white suede jacket that got ruined by Long Shadow was enough of a lesson for me. There's no point in taking a white Valentino when you know it's going to be stained. I pack a pair of tailored boot cut Louis Vuitton pants that make my legs look as if they go on forever, especially if I wear a pair of skyscraper heels. It's a nice way to cheat, because the pants are longer than my legs so they hide the fact that I am wearing five inch wedges. Barisan's insinuations that my outfit this morning was 'boring' sticks in my mind. He probably doesn't know the next thing about fashion, seeing as he's an eight hundred year old guy who wears black sneakers with shiny red panels (seriously, a warlock with sneakers?) as part of his daily outfit, but still. I pack some nude coloured lingerie —it goes with anything, even white t-shirts— and a couple of comfortable t-shirts that would work just as well with a skirt as with jeans, or maybe even a suit. Then I come across an Alexander Wang dress that I ordered and simply forgot about. I'm lucky that neither Tara nor Pam are here, or else they'd have lectured me about how sinful it is to leave such a beauty unattended.

The dress really is quite beautiful. It's a brick red assymetrical ruched jersey dress —which translates to wrinkle-free. It has only one shoulder and it shows off one of my legs to mid-thigh. That's definitely going in my luggage. For tonight, however, I choose a grey silk blend dress by Phillip Lim. It drapes over my curves, just hinting at them, but has an open back. The colour is demure, but the exposed back makes it very sexy. And a bit cold, but we are going to Texas, after all. I wear it with bare legs and nude patent Louboutin pumps, as well as my gold Cartier watch, as always. My coral nail polish adds a splash of colour, and I put on classic red lipstick and then pin up my hair in a French twist. There. I'm definitely _not_ boring. Actually, I look a bit like a bombshell, if I must say. I throw on my black sequined Moschino blazer on top of it all. I'm not in Texas yet, and air conditioning at the airport can make it a bit chilly.

I call for Louis. It's almost six, and I'm supposed to be meeting Eric at Fangtasia at quarter to seven. He's still arranging things with Pam, and they have yet to find a new permanent bartender to replace Long Shadow. Thalia's threatened to quit —or kill something— if she has to serve one more mojito to a donor. Her drink mixing skills also leave much room for improvement, but I sure am not going to be the one to tell her that. I like being alive.

I don't even need to stop at the door. All the vampires under Eric's command know who I am and they know better than to stop me. Technically, I don't need to go in, but I kinda want to see Pam, if only to have a look at how she's testing Eric's vague dress code. She looks great in a tight black Elizabeth and James mini dress with lace sleeves and a lace panel at the back and a pair of mesh Christian Louboutin cut out boots with suede lace-up detail at the front. It's very burlesque-ish, but Pam looks deadly in her outfit, especially since she's wearing blood red nail polish and lipstick. She's a lot braver than me when it comes to fashion. I would never dare to wear those shoes, although I'd try the dress if the occasion ever calls for it.

"You're dressed to impress today," she remarks when she takes in my outfit. "And I want your bag." It's a tan Proenza Schouler PS1 crocodile print satchel. I signed up for the waiting list a month before its release and I am not giving it up.

"Get your own," I say, holding onto it possessively. "And interesting shoes."

"I'm rather liking the mesh trend," says Pam. "Eric's in the back. It's safe to go in."

"Really?" I have not forgotten what happened last time when she told me it was all right to interrupt him.

"Really," says Pam. "He's just interviewing yet another bartending candidate. Nothing as interesting as last time, I'm afraid. I did like how you reacted, though." That Pam.

"Can you please not sabotage things between us?" I ask.

"Oh, so you admit that you are one singular unit?"

"You're awful, did you know that?" I turn on my heel and march towards the back before she can come up with anymore smart retorts about my use of the word 'us', plus my accusation of sabotage.

She is honest with me this time, though, because Eric is really just finishing up an interview with a very handsome male Asian vampire. He's taller than most Asians I've met, about six feet tall. His entire upper body is covered in intricate tattoos and I know this because he's not wearing a shirt. The front of his head is shaved clean, but the hair on the back of his head is long and dark. He's left it loose and it flows down his back like a cascade of black silk. He's just getting up as I walk in, and he bows to me. Clearly, my reputation precedes me. Or else he's just polite.

"Sookie, you're just in time," says Eric. "Chow, this is Miss Stackhouse, my business associate. Sookie, this is Nalan Xingzhao, our new bartender."

I hope I never have to call him by his real name, because I'm pretty sure I'll mangle it.

"Just Chow will do, Miss Stackhouse," says the vampire. Phew. "It is an honour to finally be able to put your face to your great name and reputation." Well, he has a sweet tongue. I bet he was some sort of courtier back in his day. Or maybe a poet.

"You will start tonight," says Eric as he, too, rises from his seat in one graceful movement. "In my absence, you will report to Pam. I expect you to regulate your behaviour. Fangtasia is a show. You give the humans the menace that they expect and nothing more. Is that understood?"

"Yes, milord," says Chow, inclining his head towards Eric before leaving. Funnily enough, he steps backwards for three steps before he actually turns around and heads out the door.

"It's an old habit left over from his days at the Qing Imperial Court," says Eric, as if he's read my mind. "One never turns his back on his sovereign." He grabs his leather jacket off the back of his chair. "And, might I say that you look stunning as always, Sookie?"

"You're not so bad yourself."

"Well, apparently I can't compare to a certain warlock that we all know."

"What do you mean?" Mrs. Fortenberry can't have told him how much better she thinks Barisan is, right? _Right_?

Instead of answering, Eric hands me his phone. I notice that he's been reading TMZ, and on the screen is a picture of me and Barisan heading into the Mortimer's building this morning. God, the paparazzi are fast. "Eric, I needed an escort for a brunch, and I could hardly ask you," I say. The Viking is behaving in a very strange manner. It's almost as if he's...

Jealous.

Of his best friend.

Because of me.

Okay, I'm so not going there. He said so himself when he introduced me to Chow as his business associate; we are friends. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Not that it's any of your business, but there's nothing going on with Barisan. We're just friends, like you and me."

"Barisan is very charming," he says, as if testing me.

"He can also be an arrogant a-hole and he called my outfit this morning boring."

He grins. "It is a little conservative, although I do enjoy imagining what's hidden beneath that sensible looking tailored dress."

"Exactly. It's best to leave something to the imagination; that's so much sexier than letting everything hang out." I can't believe this. I'm talking fashion with the King of Sweatpants and Flip Flops.

Said King of Sweatpants and Flip Flops is wearing a dress shirt that stretches across his impressive pectorals in a tantalizing manner, slim fitting jeans that draw my eyes to a certain area and heavy duty leather boots tonight.

Yum.

Wait, no. That's wrong. He's my _friend_.

...Although it's no sin to ogle, is it?

"Shall we, milady?" asks Eric as he offers me his arm. I loop mine through his. It's almost as if we're dating, except we're not because Eric Northman doesn't date. He has serial sex. And I'm his business associate. There's no point in analyzing things that aren't there.

"We shall," I say.

Louis drives us to the airport. He keeps glancing backwards, and he's wondering if I'm back with the vampire, or if I'm having sex with both the 'young man from this morning' along with the vampire. He hopes that I won't end up getting hurt because it's a dangerous game I'm playing. Louis is sweet, but he can be pretty clueless sometimes. We don't talk in the limo because we don't want anyone to know what we're up to, and non-business talk is just dangerous territory right now.

We're flying by Anubis Airlines, an airline that caters specifically to the needs of vampires. Our seats are First Class, of course. I wouldn't settle for anything less. Maybe I am a bit of a pampered princess, but I've seen how economy passengers look after a long flight, and it's not pretty. Besides, sitting in cramped seats gives you a higher chance of getting blood clots.

"May I take your coat?" asks Eric. He seems to be in a better mood now that I've established that I don't have feelings for the warlock. I shrug off my blazer. The cabin's temperature is just perfect. Behind me, I hear a click as Eric's fang's drop. It's the open back, I know, and I'm secretly pleased for some reason I can't fathom. I guess it's the idea that I can cause reactions in a man as powerful as Eric Northman. It makes me feel like I'm on top of the world. "Sookie, Sookie," he says in a husky whisper. "What are you trying to achieve?"

"You don't like it?" I ask.

"On the contrary, I enjoy the view very much, and I think you know it." He stows away my blazer in the overhead compartment. "Might I interest you in a membership in the Mile High Club?"

"Thanks, but no thanks," I say. "When I'm going to do it —_if_ I do it— it's going to be in a proper king-sized four poster with a mesh canopy and six hundred count Egyptian cotton sheets."

"Is that right?" he asks. "You seem to know what you want."

"Of course," I say.

A meal is served shortly after take-off. I choose a spinach cheese and tomato quiche, followed by crème brulée for dessert. Eric, of course, selects Royalty Blended. I ask him what's so special about it.

"The price," he responds immediately. "Drinking the blood of royalty is a status symbol, much like, say, Louis Vuitton handbag with the logo emblazoned all over it, even though the quality of the leather might be considered to be subpar compared to…say…something by Bally which doesn't have the logo."

"I would never use one of those bags," I say. "I like LV well enough, but I'm not a walking billboard." I take a bite of my quiche. It's sinfully cheesy, just the way I like it. "So, tell me more about what we're going to be doing in Dallas."

I find out that we're going to be meeting a vampire called Stan Davis —I snigger at the name a bit— who's in charge of all the vampires in Texas.

"So he's the king?" I ask.

"Indeed," says Eric. "But don't call him 'Your Majesty'. Vampires don't appreciate humans knowing about our political system."

"What should I call him?"

"Just Mr. Davis will do."

Eric can't tell me much about his friend who's gone missing, because he doesn't know what happened that night. He does tell me that his friend is a prominent sheriff who was just visiting Dallas when he went missing. It's a very worrying thing as Eric's friend, Godric, is over two thousand years old and very powerful. "If those extremists can subdue a vampire like him, imagine what that means for the rest of us," says Eric.

I shiver. I don't particularly want to imagine such a scenario. It would be like something from those dystopic movies about the future, in which the entire world is ruled by intolerant tyrants and those who believe in justice become terrorists. Like _V for Vendetta_. I can totally imagine Eric being V except not mutilated.

The flight isn't long. We land in Dallas at about eleven. There's a limo waiting for us. Well, I thought they were waiting for us, but in actuality, they're waiting for me.

And it's not for a good reason.

As soon as I step out of the plane, the man I presumed to be the driver of the limo grabs me by the arm and tries to wrestle me into the car. I use the word 'try' in a very general sense here in that he did grab my arm, but that's all he managed to do before Eric had him pinned to the hood of the car with a hand around his throat.

"Who sent you?" the vampire growls. The man is about to piss his pants. He hadn't expected me to be accompanied by a vampire. His employers didn't mention that. I glimpse the image of a broad and balding middle-aged man with a crooked nose and eyebrows so close together that they could be a mono-brow. I see the man give him a bag of cash—one hundred dollar bills. However, there is no name dropped. The man was supposed to take me to a drop off point at exactly five forty seven so that no vampires would be able to rescue me before that. Too bad they didn't do their homework properly. It can't have been that hard to find out that I'm associated with vampires personally. I mean, don't they read _People _magazine?

"He doesn't know, Eric," I say. "But he was meant to take me to this place just outside Dallas. It's isolated, so no one will see the exchange." Eric is still growling. I guess he doesn't need to stop to take breaths, since he doesn't breathe. Not normally, anyway. "What are you going to do to him?"

Instead of answering me, Eric focuses on my would-have-been kidnapper. "You came to the airport," he says to the man in that hypnotic voice he uses for glamour. "But Sookie had already left because the flight was early, and your limo got towed while you waited." Yes, that was a bit mean, but he deserved it, so I don't feel particularly sorry for him. Besides, it's a much kinder fate than he would have gotten than if he'd encountered another vampire instead of Eric, of that I'm quite certain.

We check into the Hotel Carmilla, the leading vampire friendly hotel in Dallas, and before I can even unpack, I'm whisked off to King Stan's 'nest'. Eric is impatient to know more about the situation. Besides, Davis needs to know about my almost-kidnapping tonight. Eric's deduced that since only those directly involved knew that I was coming to Dallas, there must be an insider, or else the 'nest' has been bugged. Or both. He's leaning towards the third option, and I can't say I disagree. A spy might not catch every snatch of conversation on his own, but there would be no bug without a spy.

There is a geeky looking vampire waiting for us. At first glance, I mistake him for a lackey until Eric addresses him, catching me by surprise. _This_ is the King of Texas? He looks like one of the guys from Accounting with his argyle sweater —they might be in right now, but I'm willing to bet my classic Chanel quilted purse that he's been wearing them a long time before they were ever considered to be stylish, and will be wearing them for a long time afterwards. As an attempt to blend in with the human populace, he's added thick rimmed glasses to his ensemble, although I know from experience that vampires all have better-than-perfect vision.

Eric cuts straight to the chase…and texts what happened at the airport to the king. You'd expect vampires to be technophobes, but most of them have embraced the new technologies which allow them to a) catch up on what they miss during the day and b) do business more easily. Immediately, Stan Davis makes a motion to one of the other vampires and shows her the text. She nods and returns moments later with one of those devices that can block radio transmissions.

Before I know it, there's a house-wide search for transmitting devices and spies. Vampires, with their super senses, are able to detect the 'sound' of radio waves if they are close enough to the device and if they are paying attention to it. They are, however, too proud to crawl under desks and tables and they don't want to alert anymore human 'pets' to the breach of security, lest the spy is one of them, so I end up on my hands and knees. I'm sure Eric enjoys the view. I find him smirking at me as I emerge from beneath a desk and dust my hands off. If I know him well enough, then he's most likely thinking of other things that I could be doing on my hands and knees. The North Man's mind is never far from the gutter.

"Nothing under there," I say. "You know, it would be more efficient if you joined in the search."

"I am searching," he says. "I'm listening. I can multi-task."

"You're a guy," I retort. "Guys can't multi-task. Psychological research has proven it."

"I am vampire. Human psychology does not apply to me. Do you not remember how I held a perfectly coherent conversation with you as I—"

"I don't need reminding, thank you very much," I say quickly. That had…not been one of my best moments. I mean, getting jealous of donors and then kissing Eric before making him rinse out his mouth after he'd been messing around with the donors. What had I been thinking?

"No?" asks Eric. "I seem to remember that you enjoyed it. Well, what happened afterwards, at least."

"That's exactly why I don't want to be reminded," I say as I get back down and search the carpet around a bookshelf. From those CSI shows, I know that transmitting devices can be tiny. "It was not my finest moment, and I don't know what I was thinking. I mean, who knows what sort of germs you had on you?"

"Vampires do not get sick," Eric says with a frown. "You know that."

"But that doesn't mean you can't get bacterial cells and viruses on the surface of your skin," I say. "And viruses can survive without living hosts for three hours. That was in Biology class."

"Those donors were not ill; I made sure of that."

"And why would you do that if human diseases don't affect you?"

"Because healthy humans taste better." Oh, squick. I suppose it would make sense, though, and really, it's not so different from me talking about how organic free range eggs taste better than that hormone-filled battery farmed stuff. I concentrate on looking for the bug instead. My fingers come into contact with a bump under the carpet right beside the base of the bookshelf. It's so tiny that one could easily mistake it for the underlay bunching up underneath it, but then I see that someone's cut open the carpet.

"I've found something," I say. The other vampires must have been listening in, because as soon as I said it, they all zoom in and gather around me. No one lifts a finger to offer to help me retrieve the bug. Vampires. I sigh. "Can someone get me some latex gloves, please?" I am greeted with a wall of blank looks. "I don't want to compromise the evidence. You know, fingerprints and stuff."

"Miss Stackhouse, are you under the impression that we are going to take this to the authorities?" asked Stan Davis.

"I don't think so," I say. "But the fingerprints could help you to pinpoint the spy. Don't you have some private crime lab or something?"

"I have never thought of such a thing," mused Davis. "Perhaps it is a business venture worth looking into."

Since there is not private vampire crime lab to trace who planted the bug, the only thing I can do is destroy it. "Would I be able to have a glass of water, please?" I ask. Davis sends a female in a beautifully cut Chloé suit to fetch me a glass. When she comes back, I thank her, and then drop the bug into the glass.

* * *

Since there is no way to trace who put the bug there, we have to resort to another plan to find out if the Fellowship has really taken Eric's friend. "Are you sure it's the Fellowship of the Sun who's responsible for his disappearance?" I ask.

"They are the most likely suspects," says Eric. "There are no clues, Sookie, which is why I requested your help."

"Well, in that case, I suppose the only way to find out if they have taken Godric is for me to go undercover and read their minds," I say. "Except anyone who read a newspaper or watch _E!_ will recognize me as being the heiress who had a fling with a rich vampire."

"That _is_ a problem," says Davis. "However, a change of hairstyle and colour, a pair of spectacles and coloured contact lenses, along with a professional make-up session, should remedy it."

Soon, we are busy discussing my transformation into 'Jeri Lou Labouche' —the two guys probably think they're hilarious, giving me that kind of alias— who's a just engaged girl from a small town in Washington. I've supposedly eloped to Dallas with my fiancé because in the south, married women are less likely to be regarded with suspicion than single girls.

"Your reason for joining the Fellowship is that your other church a pastor who was pro-vampire rights," says Davis.

"Who exactly am I engaged to?" I ask.

The two vampires glance at each other. They don't seem to have considered this. Finally, they assign one of the human companions, the 'friend' of the female vampire in the beautiful Chloé suit, as my husband-to-be because he's relatively unscathed by glamour. That vampire, Isabel, looks after her pets very well, apparently. I meet him briefly as he is told of his task. I get a glimpse of his mind; like most 'donors', his mind is filled with vampire bites and sex, although unlike most others, he seems to be embarrassed by the fact that he is a donor. It's a little strange. Still, he seems okay, and he's not vapid the way Ginger is, so I assent to him playing my fiancé.

It's late, or rather, very early in the morning by the time we get back to the hotel. I'm yawning, and Eric has half an hour to go before he dies for the day. "You will be all right tomorrow?" he asks as he follows me into my room. I think there are more things that he wants to say before he retires for the day.

"I think so," I say. I certainly hope so. I'm going to have to wear clothes from Walmart and Target —cringe— and pretend to be someone who hates vampires and all things supernatural whilst professing to be a Christian. That takes an Oscar winning actress, not an heiress whom everyone thinks is a little kooky. Still, I don't think there's a telepathic Oscar winning actress around, so I'm all he's got.

He looks as if he wants to say something else. It's not like Eric to hesitate. "Sookie," he says. "I want you to take my blood."

I stare at him. Wouldn't that mean I'd be tied to him forever? I value my independence and I am about to refuse him but he holds up his hand. "Hear me out," he says. "I know you are an independent woman, and the thought of letting someone else feel your emotions and track you is not something that you like. I wouldn't have suggested it if I didn't think it was absolutely necessary. You are going into enemy territory. With my blood in you, I will be able to sense if you are in danger. It's only practical."

I don't say anything. I mean, he's making a lot of sense. If I had to choose between reduced independence or death, which one would appeal to me less? Still, there's an annoying little voice in my head saying, 'no way'.

He takes one step closer to me. His blue eyes bore into mine. There isn't much time left. His movements are less graceful now, although he still has more grace than I can ever hope to achieve. How can anyone or anything be so perfect? Physically perfect, that is. I know Eric has his flaws. They make him more human than he would ever care to admit. I mean, imperfection is one of the key traits of being human.

Eric's hands are slack at his sides. Slowly, he lifts his right hand as if to touch my face, but he hesitates, as if he is asking for permission. I push away the realization of how intimate a moment we are having. We. Are. Friends. Without benefits. Still, he is possibly one of the most loyal and best friends I have ever had. He's helped me. He's protected me. He's been honest with me —as far as I know, at any rate. "Do you trust me?" he asks.

"Yes," I say immediately.

"Then…" He lets the word hang. Some questions don't need to be voiced. I know he won't use his hold over me to exploit me. He's had that opportunity plenty of times. I mean, he could have tricked me into drinking his blood if he just wanted to bind me to him; why would he leave me a choice?

I nod. My heart is hammering against my ribs, and my palms become sweaty. Drinking blood doesn't really appeal to me. I'm only human. My regular diet is decidedly more varied and solid. Without warning, he sweeps me into his arms, bridal style, and carries me to the bed. "What are you doing?" I screech. I said I'd take his blood. I didn't say I'd do anything else! Although, blood drinking and sex are synonymous in vampire lexicon…

"I'm making you more comfortable," says Eric as he gently sets me down. "You're nervous. You don't have to be. Believe it or not, humans enjoy this, just as they enjoy being bitten." Well, he makes sense. I didn't think I'd enjoy being bitten, but I did. So maybe drinking his blood will be a surprising experience as well.

I try to stop my heart from beating so quickly as he settles himself behind me and pulls me back so that I'm leaning against his rock hard body. His legs are stretched out to either side of me. This is a rather compromising position, I must say. I hear a click as his fangs drop and he pierces the skin of his wrist before bringing it to my lips, with red rivulets trickling from the two puncture wounds. I tentatively put my mouth to the wounds and suck. He groans behind me. It's not a bad sort of groan, although it does make me uncomfortable, especially with the growing bulge pressing against my lower back. I have no doubt as to what it is, and it is incredibly impressive and intimidating.

Eric's blood is cool and smooth and sweet as it runs over my tongue and down my throat. I know I sound like I'm describing premium dark chocolate, but it's the only way I can describe the taste. The effect is instantaneous. Suddenly, the colours around me seem brighter and the sounds are clearer. I can even smell better and considering I'm in such close proximity to him, he's the one I smell most clearly. His scent is a little bit like the scent of a very well-kept old book along with Marc Jacob's _Bang_ cologne.

The wounds on Eric's wrist close. The bulge does not lessen. I become aware of him nuzzling my neck. He's holding himself back. If he had less self-control, he would have bitten me already, and more.

"Do you want some?" I ask. My voice is surprisingly husky. If _I_ had any less self-control, I'd be all over him by now. My frontal lobe is being drowned out by all those hormones.

"Do not tease me, Sookie," he says in a voice so low that it's almost a growl. "Or do you actually _want_ me to lose all restraint? I don't just want to bite you."

"What else do you want, Mr. Northman?"

"I think you know the answer to that, Miss Stackhouse."


	12. Bleeding Eyes

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. They belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball.

**A/N: **I went with the _True Blood_ plot for this chapter, because that is one of my favourite bits ever.

** JudyB**: I'm very glad that your friend's okay. And, I know this might sound a bit callous, would you mind asking her if she would mind being interviewed? I'm a journalist in training, and the fact that the evacuations were calm might make for an interesting story. If she doesn't want to be interviewed, I understand.

**Chapter 12: Bleeding Eyes **

My dreams are filled with Eric. I know they are dreams because a) I'm doing things I would never do in real life, like lie naked in the grass with a friend and b) _he_'s doing things he'd never do, like naked in the grass in the sun. Actually, I think this dream was influenced by that scene in _Twilight _where Edward's lying next to Bella in that meadow as he sparkles, only Eric's a hundred thousand times better than Edward Cullen and his skin isn't radioactive. "I can't believe I'm doing this," I say to dream Eric as he traces patterns on my bare skin with a long finger. He's writing his name on my breast and somehow, I actually like how possessive he is.

"Why not?" asks Dream!Eric. "You want me, and I want you. There is nothing wrong with having what you want when you don't hurt anyone."

"Because this isn't me," I say, propping myself up on one elbow and letting my tousled hair fall across my chest. Eric mirrors my movement so that he's on eye level with me. His eyes are so blue and deep that I can believe I'm staring into the centre of a nebula. The sun is making his hair look like molten gold. I can stare at him forever. "I'm not in love with you and I don't do this 'friends with benefits' thing."

"Who said we were friends?" asks Dream!Eric as he pulls me towards him for a kiss. His lips sear me to the very core of my being. I rub myself against him. Our bodies mould together perfectly. His hand moves down my body, from my shoulder, down my sides, my hips and my thighs, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

And then there's a bunch of voices singing something about 'odorem sanguis'.

My alarm pulls me out of that delicious dream and I find that I'm lying with my nightie bunched up around my hips in a bed which is sadly devoid of any trace of Viking. Wait. I don't _want_ to find Eric in bed beside me. That would just be wrong, wrong, wrong. Even if the view would be spectacular. Gah, I am really in need of sleep. Or maybe just coffee, since I don't really have any time to waste. I head downstairs to the spa and salon to get my hair cut and coloured. My hair's usually wavy, but I've decided to go for straightened layers because that's a big change without me having to cut off most of my crowning glory. Sure, I could probably get extensions, but I don't exactly want to think that I might be wearing the locks of some poor gypsy woman who had to sell her hair to feed her family. I wouldn't be able to live with myself.

"Now why would you want to dye your hair?" asks the hairdresser as she puts foils in my hair. "Your hair is gorgeous. I want it." She's a middle-aged woman with shocking pink hair and seven piercings in each ear. Her name tag says 'Doreen'. It's altogether too plain of a name for someone who looks the way she does.

"I just feel like a change," I say. "Bad relationship and all. I'm ready to make a new start."

"Ah, still can't let go of that vampire?" asks the stylist.

"How do you know?" I ask.

"I may be a busy woman, but I do read those gossip magazines. They said you parted on good terms, though."

"Avoiding the media spotlight," I say. "I don't really want to talk about it."

"Oh, honey, it will get better, I promise." I guess that's why they pay her so much to cut and colour hair. She's got a very soothing presence, Doreen, and she talks whilst she expertly applies some foul smelling chemicals to my hair.

By the time she's done, I'm a brunette and I look…Greek. Well, Italian, at least. I've never been a brunette in my life and it feels weird, especially since guys no longer ogle me as much. It's a welcome change, although I do mourn the loss of my blondeness. Blondes can hide behind the stereotype of dumbness, which is very useful on occasion. I go back upstairs just in time to accept the delivery of the rest of my disguise supplies. There's a pair of unflattering oval tortoiseshell glasses with non-prescription lenses, a couple of knee-length corduroy skirts which make me wince with their ugliness, and two floral blouses, one green and one blue, both with large white flowers. They would work better as curtains for a trailer, to be honest. There's a pair of beige flats to go with all of this. I haven't worn flats since…the last time I went to the gym. I don't look in the mirror. Even Eric at his horniest can't possibly find me attractive when I look like this, I don't think. The vampires have been very thorough, because there's even a cheap white vinyl purse plus a cubic zirconium ring. Ick. Ick. Ick. Ah, the things you do for friends.

I tuck my pepper spray into the cheap purse, along with some cash. My phone goes in my bra. One, Jeri Lou Labouche probably can't afford a Blackberry, and I want my phone on me at all times in case something does happen and I need to call for help. Plus, the phone's a modified taser. I turn off the sound and the vibrate mode first, though. It would be very strange if my breast started vibrating.

No one recognizes me when I get out of the elevator. They think I'm either in the wrong place, or else I'm a very well-disguised 'donor'. My 'fiancé', Hugo Ayers, is waiting for me outside the hotel and even though we've met, he doesn't recognize me until I approach him. "Wow, Jeri Lou," he says. "You really look the part."

"Thanks, I guess," I say. "What's your alias anyway?"

"I guess you can just call me Hugo," he says. "I'm not very good at remembering these things and it's not as if I'm famous."

He drives me in his old blue Ford to the Fellowship of the Sun church. It's a little way out of Dallas, and the building itself doesn't look anything like a church at all. Rather, it reminds me of some big community centre or commune, with one large central building and dozens of smaller buildings scattered all around it. As we draw closer, I realize that those are classrooms. There are colourful childish pictures taped to the wall. One of them shows a stick figure driving a stake through another stick figure with fangs. I feel sick. The kid who drew that couldn't have been older than seven at the time. How can they teach _children_ such hatred? I think of Hunter, who is so trusting and bubbly. To teach little people like him such ugly things is a form of abuse.

Hugo's nervous, which is understandable. This is an undercover job, after all. We park the car in a dusty car park and walk up the steps of the 'church'. There are a lot of people here, all dressed in their most casual clothes and, funnily enough, lugging sleeping bags and pillows and boxes of food and games. There seems to be some sort of event, and people are excited. I hear something about a 'bonfire'.

There is a woman in her mid-thirties to early forties greeting everyone at the door with kind words of welcome and a brilliant perfect smile. She looks altogether too stylish to be here and she sticks out like a rose amongst shrubs. A thorny rose. She's judging each and every single one of the people she's greeting. This one's stupid. That one's a nosy bitch. I recognize her as being Sarah Newlin, wife of Reverend Steve Newlin, who's been in the newspaper more than Jason has, although he's usually there because he wants to be there. His father founded the Fellowship of the Sun church. It used to be called something else, and they were anti-gay and covertly anti-feminist, but ever since the vampires came out of the coffin, they changed their name to the Fellowship of the Sun. The old Reverend Newlin was killed in a car crash last year, along with his —second— wife, who was twenty years younger than him, and their young daughter. He was sixty-six years old.

"Well, hello there," says Sarah Newlin to Hugo and me. "I don't think I've seen you around before. Are you new here?"

"We just moved here, actually," I say as brightly as I can manage as I hug Hugo's arm, pretending that I actually love him.

"I'm Hugo," says Hugo, sticking out his hand. Sarah shakes it. "Hugo Ayers." What the hell? Why would he use his real name?

"Sarah Newlin," says Sarah. "I'm Reverend Newlin's wife." She shakes my hand in turn, and I notice that her grip is limp and her mind is strangely full of very random thoughts. It's as if she's trying to _not_ think about something. A more skilled telepath would have been able to discover what she's hiding, but I'm nowhere near Barisan's level of expertise. Maybe I could join Hunter's lessons when I go back to New York.

"This is Jeri Lou," says Hugo. "My fiancée."

"Welcome to the Light of Day Institute, Hugo and Jeri Lou," says Sarah brightly. "I'm so glad you've decided to come here."

"We're glad to be here too," I say. "Our other church, the pastor was…you know."

"Was he homosexual?" asks Sarah. "Oh my." She crosses herself.

"No, it's worse," I say. "He's a _sympathizer_."

Sarah gasps in a melodramatic way. She loathes vampires, and it's personal. _'No, don't think about that,'_ she's telling herself. That's odd. "Well, I see why you couldn't possibly have stayed, and you made the right decision," she says out loud. "I'm sure you'll meet a lot of like-minded people here. Oh, and there's Steve. Steve! This is Hugo and Jeri Lou. They're new."

Steve Newlin is a relatively attractive looking man in his early to mid-forties. There isn't a single hair out of place and his white suit is meticulous. He even has a yellow handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket of his blazer. He's thinking about how good he looks and how he's going to wow the nation and convert them all to his cause. He's also very excited about something, although he, too, seems to be deliberately _not_ thinking about something. It is most odd.

"Welcome, welcome!" he says as he shakes our hands enthusiastically. "You've made the right choice in coming here."

* * *

The Newlins take us on a tour of the church grounds. Steve points out the main buildings and Sarah supplements him. "The main church is used for other activities besides worship," says the Reverend as he shows us the stairs that lead down into the basement. "We host a lot of events."

"We have barbecues, game nights…oh, there's a lock-in tonight," says Sarah.

"I beg your pardon?" I ask.

"A lock-in," says Sarah. "Basically, we have a sleepover in the church, with lots of food and games and movies and Bible readings and a sermon. It's a lot of fun."

"I've never heard of them," I say.

"Oh you poor deprived thing," says Sarah.

"Why don't you come to tonight's one?" asks Steve. "We have spare sleeping bags and pillows, and plenty of food." He's practically gleeful. And wait…is that a large bonfire with someone burning in the middle of it? A vampire? I have to go back. I have to tell Eric.

"Oh, I don't think so," I say. "I have a…" A what? "I have a casserole in the oven, and I have to feed the cat."

"The cat has plenty of dried food and water, honey," says Hugo. "And we can save the casserole for another day. This is a great opportunity to meet new people."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man striding towards us; the same man with the mono-brow I saw in the mind of my would-have-been kidnapper. Oh God…

"Well, it's really nice of you," I say to the Newlins. "I'll just go home and put the casserole in the fridge so it won't spoil, and then we'll come back with our things."

"I don't think so," says Newlin. His demeanour changes immediately and he grabs me by the arm before shoving me down the stairs. I have no time to prepare and I roll down the steps. Painfully, I might add. My cheap glasses break and I land in an undignified heap on the floor next to Hugo, who was also pushed down. I try to clamber back up the stairs. Just because escape was futile with three people blocking one narrow doorway doesn't mean I'm not going to try it. It's still day time, so Eric probably can't sense me. '_Barisan_!' I think as hard as I can. Is there such a thing as long distance telepathy?

Steve Newlin is upon me in an instant and he holds me still as Sarah Newlin searches me. She takes my phone from my bra and then crushes it beneath the heel of her shoe. Great. There goes my last chance at contacting the outside world, unless the warlock has developed stalkerish tendencies and followed Eric and me to Dallas. Somehow, I doubt that. "Let's see how your precious _vampires_ will save you now, you evil whore of Satan!" she spits.

"I'm a _virgin_," I say. "I'm not sure how I can be a virgin whore."

"Get them inside, Gabe," Newlin says to Mono-brow. I try my best to kick him in the balls, but I mis-aim with my flat shoes and hit his knee instead. Newlin yanks my head back by my hair and it fucking hurts. A lady is allowed to curse in drastic situations. I'm sure Gran will forgive me. "You're going to witness the wrath of God tonight, you little slut," he whispers into my ear before he pushes me into a caged off section of the basement, along with Hugo.

"Wait!" he shouts. "What are you doing? I've done everything you told me!" Oh, so now I get it. _He'_s the spy. Really, it hurts to be betrayed no matter by whom. Mainly, I'm just mad at myself for not finding out about his treachery sooner. I mean, I am a telepath. Obviously, I'm not a very good one.

"I don't get it," I say after the Newlins and Mono-brow leave. "Why on earth would you do this? Isabel treats you well. I've seen the way she looks at you. She loves you!"

"That's what she wants me to think!" says Hugo. "I guess you don't get it, do you, you stupid slut. It's what they do. They make you attach yourself to them, so that everything you do is for them. I lost my wife, my job, and I'm happy to do menial kitchen chores so I can be with Isabel! And then she refuses to turn me! Do you think Eric Northman really loves you? He doesn't. Their hearts don't beat. They can't love. They will just use you, and then discard you."

"Okay, just back up here. One, what's going on between Eric and me is none of your business, and two, your obsession with Isabel is _your_ own psychological problem and you should have gotten counselling for sex addiction instead of turning your back on people who've never done anything to hurt you and selling them out!"

"If there's anyone who's turned their back on anyone, then it's you, you little fangbanging whore!" says a new voice. Oh, wonderful. Mono-brow's returned. He unlocks the door of the cage we're in. Hugo rushes at him and tries to get past him, but the brute is strong, and he knocks Hugo into the floor with one right hook. Hugo falls, unconscious. Now it's just him and me, and I know it's not going to be pretty. I scream as he pounces on me and throws me onto my back. His hands are groping my breasts and tearing my blouse open to reveal my —Calvin Klein— underwear. I kick and scream and struggle, but even with Eric's blood in me, Mono-brow is much larger and stronger and he's overpowering me. "Let me show you what a _real_ man's like!" he all but cackles.

"Get the fuck off me!" I aim at his eyes with my fingers, intent on gouging them out, but he grabs my hand before I can get to him and pins it to the floor. His knee forces my thighs open. Oh God, no…

And then he's dangling by the back of his sweatshirt. Holding him up is a beautiful adolescent boy with pale skin and blue tattoos all over his body. The look Celtic, or something like that. "Godric, what are you doing?" Mono-brow wheezes. The neck of his sweatshirt is cutting off his air. "It's me!"

"I am aware," says the young-looking vampire who is probably older than the Roman Empire. And then he snaps Mono-brow's neck, letting him fall to the floor. His eyes are still open in death. I climb shakily to my feet and try to make myself decent; it's a little hard to do when all my buttons are on the floor. At least the hardy corduroy skirt is intact, and so is my underwear. I give up and just tie the ends of my blouse together. Some of my bra is still showing, and my midriff is bare, but at least my blouse isn't flapping open.

"Godric?" I ask. "Are you Godric?"

"You should not have come, human," he says. I take that as a yes.

"Eric asked me to help find you. He's really worried." I step towards him, taking care to stay as far away from the dead body as possible. I mean the _truly_ dead body. "Come on, we have to go before they find out."

Screams from above indicate that it may be a bit too late for a subtle exit. Eric comes zooming through the doorway at vampire speed. I've never been so glad to see anyone in my life. It's not rational, but I throw myself at him and he catches me, holding me. "Sookie," I hear him say softly. "Sookie, I am sorry. Are you hurt? Please, tell me."

I shake my head. I was _almost_ hurt in a most brutal way, if not for the interference of his friend. Eric's voice soothes me and I find comfort in his mental silence. "Hugo was a traitor," I whisper.

"He will be punished," says Eric. "I swear it."

"You shouldn't have sent humans after me," says Godric. His voice is soft and like that of a teenaged boy, but it is heavy like that of an old veteran who has seen too much death and destruction. I suppose he is both. "It was foolish."

"I had no other choice," says my Viking. Wait, no. _The_ Viking. Not _my_ Viking. Eric doesn't belong to anyone apart from himself. "The fanatics want to destroy you."

"I know, my child," says Godric. Child. In vampire lexicon, that means Godric _made_ Eric. He's like Eric's dad! No wonder Eric was so worried. "I came to them."

"Why?" demands Eric. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"The endless darkness holds no meaning for me anymore," says Godric.

The sirens sound, and lights flash, alerting the members of the Fellowship to a breach of security. If we do not leave now, then we won't ever be leaving. At least not alive.

"Godric, please," says Eric. Is he…begging? "You cannot think that way."

"You cannot change my mind, Eric," says Godric. "Go now, before it is too late. Save the human, but spill no blood. It is a command. Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."

Eric wants to protest, I can tell, but he cannot refuse his maker's command. He bows his head, and with his arm still wrapped around my shoulders, he escorts me out of the basement. I see that he's broken down the locked door; it lies in splinters on the steps. Outside, a couple of men are milling around with stakes in their hands. They are nervous. None of them have actually seen a vampire before, but they are determined to kill the 'enemies of God'. On the speakers, Newlin is announcing that the 'Soldiers of the Sun' —they even have their own private army like the Taliban!— are going to be arriving soon to secure the area and capture the rogue vampire. The doors have been barred. The only way out is to kill those men —because I'm pretty sure that even Eric can't break through solid concrete walls— but Godric commanded Eric not to kill anybody. It is a huge dilemma. Oh, where is that warlock when you most need him? He's most likely still trying to beat the computer at chess.

"Stay here," Eric whispers to me. "Keep out of sight."

"What are you doing?"

"Don't you trust me?"

"You know I do."

He transforms before my very eyes, from a confident vampire prince into…I don't know. Maybe that's what he thinks humans are like. He approaches the men with an exaggerated swagger.

"Hey," he says in a pretty good Canadian accent. "The Reverend told me to guard the door."

"On your own?" asks one of young men there. He must be younger than me. I feel sad for him; he must have known this hatred all his life.

"You think I ain't got it in me, bub?" asks Eric. If the situation wasn't so dire, I would have laughed. If he thinks the _Wolverine_ is a regular human, then he's got another think coming.

"Well, you're big, but we're dealing with a vampire here," says the young man. "They're dangerous."

Eric snorts. "If he comes at me I'll stake 'em. It's simple."

"You don't have a stake," another man points out.

"Yeah, well, I kinda left in a hurry," says Eric. He holds out his hand.

"No way," says the first man. "You can get your own." The other guys are becoming suspicious. I can hear their thoughts. They're wondering why Eric's so pale, and why his hair's so long. One of them sneaks up behind him.

"Eric!" I scream. At the same time, Eric whips around. With one swift movement, he's pushed three of the guys to the floor and then holding the fourth by the throat. The other men flee in fear, realizing that _they _are no match for a vampire. I run up to Eric.

"Don't kill him, please," I say.

The Viking snarls, but he drops the young man—boy, really, and pushes the door open just a little. I peer around his broad back; there are more armed men with stakes and crude wooden pikes and crossbows and silver chains. These look more professional than the others. I hear people marching through the other doors. We're trapped, unless we find a window. Unfortunately, the only windows are in the sanctuary. I tell him.

The vampire picks me up in his arms as if I weigh like a feather —which I don't because I'm a girl of a healthy size— and zooms to the sanctuary, only to find that the door has been barred, and there are more armed men there, waiting for us. The ring tightens, like the noose around a prisoner's neck just before the hatch is opened. Eric puts me back on my feet. There is no other way around it. There will be a fight, and we're not likely to survive. Those arrows alone would kill us before we can even do anything. Except…

The crowd parts to let Newlin through. "Well, well," he says. "Trying to leave, are we? Unfortunately for you, the only way out leads straight to Hell." Eric is silent. He is analyzing the exits, trying to find a weakness in the ring of men surrounding us. His body is tense, and he's ready to kill, to fight.

Except he's been commanded specifically _not_ to kill.

"Godric got away," I warn Newlin. "He's going to get help."

"Godric doesn't worry me," says the good reverend. "All we need is a vampire for our celebration, and this one right here will do quite nicely."

I see it in his mind. He wants to nail Eric to a wooden cross that's waiting in the sanctuary and then wheel him out to the field so that the rising sun can kill him at dawn. I look desperately at Eric. He's got to have found a way out. He has to. He's Eric Northman. He _always_ finds a way out.

Doesn't he?

"If," begins Eric. "If I give myself up, will you let the girl go?"

"Eric, no!" I hiss. He ignores me.

"I don't have the habit of hurting innocents," says Newlin.

"No," I whisper. "You can't do this." I hold onto Eric's arm, trying to make him see reason. It's not going to work, and at any rate, I don't want him to exchange his life for mine. I wouldn't be able to live with myself.

"I'll be fine, Sookie," he murmurs to me as he gently pries my fingers off his arm. He turns towards Newlin, ready to submit himself to the horrifying fate that awaited him.

I grab him and force him to turn. And when he does, I pull his head down toward mine. Our lips meet and I don't want to let him go, ever. This isn't just a kiss of lust. We put everything that we want to convey, but don't have time to convey, into that one kiss. The desire to live, the wish that we could spend longer with one another, our desperation and our regret for what will never be. It is the only thing we can do. There are too many things that need to be said and just not enough time.

His lips are insistent and hot against mine, despite having no body heat. I cling to him as if he is my only lifeline. I guess that's a pretty accurate statement, considering that we are both about to die. He deliberately bites into his tongue, drawing blood. I understand what he is trying to do. He is giving me his strength in the hopes that it might help me to survive. I suck on his gift greedily. In that instant, as we pour out our emotions into that one point of contact, I find myself suddenly slipping into Eric's mind.

Being a vampire of such great age and experience, I expected to find something unpleasant, but all I hear is his desire to protect me, even now, when such a notion is most likely impossible. A man can have no greater love than to lay down his life for his friends, and Eric is willing to do that for me. It is at that moment that I realize I really do truly love him. I don't know what kind of love I have for him, whether it is platonic or something more, but it is indeed love. And, whether he knows it or not, he loves me too.

He slowly pulls away. I stare up into his eyes, wishing that we had another option. I don't want him to die because of me. I don't want him to die, period. "Be strong," he whispers, and then he turns away from me and slowly approaches Newlin, his head bowed. As soon as he leaves my side, two men seize me and restrain me to stop me from running to him. I feel the desire to cry as he lets them bind him with silver chains. The metal burns his skin and flesh, leaving deep red marks with charred edges. They wrap silver around his wrists, his ankles, his upper arms and his neck. Smoke rises from the wounds. He is in pain. I can see it in the tenseness of his shoulders, but he doesn't utter a sound. He is too proud.

It's like a funeral march, the short walk to the sanctuary, where the cross awaits. Or perhaps it's more like the painful journey to Golgotha. I struggle against my captors, but even with Eric's blood in me, I'm not quite strong enough. I wish I were something more than just a telepathic socialite. I wish I were good enough of a telepath to transmit thoughts into people's minds and thus control them. I wish I were good enough just to contact someone who could help us.

But I'm not good enough.

The sight of the cross makes my breath hitch in my throat. The wood is smooth and polished, and it's mounted on a cart with four large metal and rubber wheels. There is a box full of large silver nails at the foot of the cross. No, no, this cannot be happening.

Eric is chained to the cross first, with silver wrapped around his arms, his neck, his torso and his legs. He is bound so tightly that he cannot move. The chains hold him in place, ready for the next step.

I want to look away, but I can't tear my eyes from the scene. I seem to have lost the ability to speak, or even think. Perhaps my mind simply doesn't want to process what my eyes are seeing. This cannot be happening. It's just a horrible nightmare. I will myself to wake up. It doesn't happen.

"Our bargain?" says Eric in a low voice to Steve Newlin once he's been secured, like an animal waiting for slaughter.

"Apart from the fact that deals with sub-humans don't have to be honoured," says Newlin, "the girl is also not an innocent."

Eric roars in fury. His fangs are out, but he can do nothing. We've both been tricked.

The first strike of the mallet drives the silver nail through flesh and tendon and between the bones of his wrist. The sound echoes through the sanctuary. I scream his name as the spike is hammered into his flesh and the wood. Tears are pouring from my eyes. I can't stand it. Red rivulets trickle down his pale skin before dripping onto the wod below.

Another thwack, another nail, a short cry of pain cut off by sheer will. Eric strains against his bonds. The silver chains cut into him and, along with the two nails, hold him secure. I've never seen him so powerless. I struggle and scream and sob. How can supposedly 'civilized' people do things like this? The worst thing was that most of these people were just ordinary folks. They had families they adored, problems at work, the lot. How did they become _this_?

They drag me to the cross. I know what they plan to do. They're going to tie me to Eric so that we can both go up in flames together.

The stained glass window at the front of the sanctuary shatters.


	13. Love Don't Need a Reason

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything you recognize. They belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball.

**Chapter 13: Love Don't Need a Reason**

Coloured glass showers down, startling the members of the Fellowship. They back away, unsure of what's going on. Even Newlin stops in the middle of his ranting to take a look. There is high pitched whistling as projectiles fly through the air. Men fall abruptly to the ground, their limbs slack, as they are struck by tiny unidentified flying objects. Maybe there are such things as aliens. I notice that it's the crossbowmen who have been targeted by the UFOs. I see a glint of metal. Whatever those UFOs are, they're metallic.

Taking advantage of their shock, I wrest myself from my captor's grasp and run to Eric. The chains have been tied tightly around Eric and the cross. I can't make head or tail of them. I tug at the knots, trying to loosen them just a bit. Eric grunts in pain as my movements cause the silver to be pressed more tightly against his flesh. The wounds in his wrists are also smoking. I can see the blistering spreading from them.

As soon as the last crossbowman is down, the door bursts open and a white blur zooms in and throws Newlin across the altar, pinning him down on the smooth mottled marble surface by his throat. Godric crouches on top of him, his expression unreadable, his eyes calm, like the predator who is about to end the life of his prey. We're still surrounded and outnumbered, but Godric is a powerful vampire and he has Steve Newlin in his grasp. That has to help, right?

Some of the more determined men take a step forward. I know they're going to try and kill us no matter what. In their minds, Newlin is a great man who's not afraid of martyrdom. If there's a martyr in this room, I say it's the vampire who's been crucified. More UFOs fly in and strike the advancing soldiers. They drop like lead sinkers. At least I know it's not Godric who's using those things, but who could it be? Barisan would have alerted me to his presence if he were here, so I'm pretty sure it's not him.

And then more vampires come in, led by Stan Davis himself. An accountant in glasses and an argyle sweater isn't very threatening, theoretically, but add fangs to that mixture and he becomes a terrifying beast. Plus, he's taken off the glasses.

"Tell your men to stand down," Godric says to Newlin in a calm voice. "I daresay they don't want to die for your madness." He turned to the armed men. "Are you willing to die for this man?"

"We're willing to die for Christ!" shouts one of the braver boys. "Vampires are the enemies of God!"

"If God hates vampires so much, then can't He do His own dirty work?" I demand. "Or isn't He strong enough?"

There is a pause. A few of the men drop their weapons and I finally manage to undo the chains around my Viking. They've left awful burn marks all over his body, and then there are the nails…

With a roar and tremendous strength, Eric rips himself free, tearing his wounds even further. It must have hurt like Hell. He staggers away from the cross, with blood still flowing from those ugly, but slowly healing, wounds. Red liquid drips from his fingertips and onto the stone floor of the church.

The humans and vampires alike part to let him through, only he's not heading for the exit. Eric bends down and plucks something from the neck of one of the unconscious crossbowmen and places it on the palm of his other hand. It gleams against his bloodstained skin. The shape is streamlined, like an arrowhead, and there is a curious pattern on it. Eric closes his hand around the little projectile and rushes outside before anyone can ask him anything. No one knows what's going on. Even Godric seems to be a little confused. I follow him.

It is dark outside, save for a few floodlights and for the stars. I see Eric's pale half-naked figure, his skin still marked by the silver chains. He needs blood, or else the holes in his wrists will take a long time to heal. They're still bleeding. "Finn!" he shouts into the night. "Finn!" His voice is desperate and tinged with hope at the same time.

"Eric?" I say. He turns around at the sound of my voice, as if registering my presence for the first time.

"Sookie," he says. He opens his hand to show me the projectile. "It was Fintan." He looks into my eyes. "He took down those crossbowmen."

My grandfather. I'd thought that with Gran gone, my only family were Jason, Hunter, Hadley and Remy, and I'm not exactly speaking to Hadley right now. However, out of the blue, I have a grandparent whom I've never met, and who, apparently, is a ninja faerie hybrid who helped to rescue us without ever showing his face.

"He doesn't want to be found," says Eric, half to himself and half to me. I think he's disappointed, even if he is thankful that Fintan appeared when he most needed a friend. That means he still cares.

I don't understand why Fintan is avoiding us, and really, I don't think I have the ability to analyze anything tonight. I'm in shock. I wrap my arm around Eric's waist. "Come on," I say. "Let's get out of here. Stan and the others are waiting."

* * *

Throughout the journey back to the hotel —Stan Davis told a very contrite Isabel drive us back whilst Godric returned to the nest to help figure out damage control— Eric keeps staring at the faerie dart in his hand. He doesn't say anything. I guess it's not wise to mention faeries in front of another vampire, especially not one who has shown a serious lapse of judgement.

Isabel apologizes profusely —again— when we arrive at the hotel, and I don't need to read her mind to tell that she is genuinely upset. She's even crying bloody tears. The poor woman is heartbroken; the man she loves just betrayed her, and he's awaiting judgement back at the 'nest'. I try to convince her it's not her fault, but I guess my shaky voice isn't very convincing. I'm still dealing with shock. I mean, tonight has been a big night; I was almost raped, I realized I love Eric, I watched him get crucified, and then my faerie grandfather makes a non-appearance. It's a lot to take in. I'm sure I'll be a wreck later.

I change out of my dirty clothes as soon as we get back to our suite. When I emerge from my room, still damp from my shower, I find that Eric is sitting on the couch, deep in thought. Most of the marks left by the silver chains have become angry-looking shiny red scars. I know they will fade in time. His wrists, however…well, it looks like he has stigmata. All his wounds, they were for me. He offered his life in exchange for mine. The fact that his plan failed doesn't diminish his sacrifice, nor does it make his love any less real.

"Eric," I say softly. I don't really know what to say to him. 'Thank you' doesn't seem to be enough. He looks up at me but he doesn't say anything. Slowly, shyly, I sit down next to him. His eyes follow my every movement, as if drinking me in. I'm not sure what I'm doing, but it only feels right. I brush my hair away from my neck and then tilt my head to the side.

"Sookie, what are you doing?" he whispers.

"You need blood," I say.

"You don't know what you're offering."

"I have a pretty good idea." I want to tell him how I feel about him, but I can't bring myself to say it. I can only show him. I feel his cool fingers on my neck; I don't know how, but simply by touching my neck, he makes the bottom of my feet tingle.

"Are you sure you want this?" he asks. "I'm afraid I won't be able to hold myself back."

Oh, I want him. I ache for him. I don't think I've ever wanted anything or anyone so much. Apart from Gran, no one, and I mean _no_ one, has ever treated me as well as he has. I guess I'm just really just like any girl. I want to find someone on whom I can rely, someone from whom I don't need to keep secrets, and who loves me the way I am. When a girl is young, she turns to her parents for that sort of love and support.

I know he hasn't agreed to any sort of commitment, but _I_ am committed to him. I love him; I know that and admit it now. Complete devotion on both sides is not certain, not even in legal marriages. What is marriage but a sheet of paper signed by two people? It only matters in the eyes of legal personnel, and mostly because of divorce. At any rate, I know he loves me too in his own fashion. I don't think I can find anyone alive more loyal to me than he is, maybe except for Tara, and I don't really want to kiss her. I don't bat that way.

His lips are on my neck, kissing me. I lean back against him and he brushes my hair away from my face tenderly. His tongue flicks out and licks my earlobe. One of his hands is stroking the side of my breast through the fabric of my robe and making me shiver in a good way. The fact that there are holes in his wrists doesn't seem to dampen his mood. I have to admire that. And then there is that familiar prick, followed by a stream of fire pulsing through ever vein in my body as he drinks from me. A trickle of hot blood runs down my neck. He wipes it away with a finger. And then I feel him pull away. He licks my wounds closed, savouring the last drops. "You are, by far, the best I have tasted," he says.

"You've told me that."

"I had to make sure it registered. You never responded."

"What do you want me to say? It's like telling a hamburger that it tastes good."

"You are not a hamburger."

"I know. Pam called me a prime steak."

Eric chuckles. I feel his hands slide under me, cradling me. My arms snake around his neck instinctively. To be honest, I've never done this sort of thing before. The only things I have on my rap sheet are a few failed dates. I didn't even do any snuggling, and the only guys I've properly hugged are Jason, Hoyt —who is like a brother to me— and the vampire I'm snuggling up to right now. He bends down to kiss me. Unlike the kiss we had before, this one is tenderly slow and torturous. He's teasing me, exciting me, savouring me. I feel myself being lifted into his arms. He doesn't break the kiss. His tongue strokes the ridges on the roof of my mouth.

He only breaks off the kiss when I start to run out of breath, and then gently sets me on his Californian king-sized bed. It is a four poster, but there is no mesh canopy. Oh well. "It's not fair, you know," I say.

"What makes you say that, Miss Stackhouse?" he asks as he looks down at me, propped up on his hands and knees with his legs on either side of me. His hair falls over his shoulder, forming a blond curtain.

"You, sir, are more or less fully dressed whilst _I_ am only in my robe," I say, feeling very bold and very scared at the same time. "That is not balanced."

"Would you like to balance things out, madam?" asks Eric. He grins, and his fangs gleam in the dim atmospheric lighting.

Undressing Eric Northman. That's something many women dream of doing. I lift myself onto my elbows and give his shoulder a gentle push. He lets me turn us both over, so that I'm now on top and kneeling between his legs. I slowly unbutton his shirt, revealing the tawny soft chest hair, the sculpted pectorals, abdominals, and the treasure trail that starts below his navel and leads into his trousers. They'd taken off his shirt when they'd bound him with chains, and with each button I undo, the angry red patterns are revealed. I run my fingers along those marks, and then I kiss them, slowly making my way over his torso. He groans, and it's not in pain.

"This one was for me," I murmur into his skin. "And this one too. They were all for me."

"Sookie, my Sookie," he says as he slides his hand under my chin and lifts my face so I can look him the eye. "Even if I hadn't offered myself, we would both have been killed anyway. You should not blame yourself, and I don't want you to do this because you feel you owe me. I want you to do this because you want me."

He seems…disappointed. I would have thought that to him, sex is sex, no matter the reason behind it, but apparently, no. At least, not with me. I glance down. What am I going to say to that? "Eric, I…" I begin. There are no words to describe the way I feel. I don't believe in sex for the sake of sex, but I'm willing to offer myself to Eric because…

Because what?

I want him because I want him. It's as simple as that. And I want him because I love him. I may not be _in _love with him, but I love him. It's not just lust. It's a sense that I've finally found what I've been searching for, even though I didn't know I was searching for anything. I have feelings for this man. Vampire. Whatever. Real feelings. If I'm ever in trouble, he's the one I'll turn to —and have done so many times in the past ever since I first met him…a couple of months ago.

God, how things can change. A couple of months ago, I never thought I'd be in bed with Eric Northman. He was just a name that I heard being thrown around and a name that I feared a little. He was a pixellated picture in the _Wall Street Journal_. Now he's a man who's sitting opposite me and waiting for me to say something; not just a businessman, but a wonderful beautiful man and a great friend who willingly offered his life in exchange for mine.

Jesus Christ, I sound like I'm in love!

What's being in love like anyway?

"Eric, I want you because I want you," I say. "Life is too short for pussyfooting. We might die any moment and I don't want to die a virgin. There is no other man I'd rather give my virginity to." I think it's the fatigue and shock. Normally, I would never say anything like this, unless I was really really drunk. However, almost getting raped and killed and then watching someone you care about get tortured really changes your perspective. "I don't know if this is right or if this is wrong, but one thing is certain. I won't regret this."

That, apparently, was the right thing to say, because the next thing I know, he's kissing me and making my toes curl with pleasure. I find myself on my back again, and my legs are wrapped around his waist. He tears away the robe from my body, leaving me in my underwear. One hand reaches into my bra to cup my breast. I shudder with pleasure that borders on pain. No one has ever touched me like this before. I whimper and arch my back, pressing myself against him. I want him. I need him.

I reach down and fumble with the button and zip of his trousers. They're so tight, and those zips and buttons are so fiddly. I finally manage to free him from the constraints of his clothing .There is no doubt about it. Eric Northman is the most well-endowed man I've ever seen, and although I haven't seen many naked men physically, I have seen them in the minds of others. No one can even compare to my Viking.

Before I know it, my bra is gone, and apart from my panties, I am completely naked. All of a sudden, I feel very vulnerable. My mind involuntarily wanders back almost twenty years ago, to another pair of hands that belonged to another man. A most unwelcome pair of hands. I can still remember the rings he wore. At the time, I didn't know who to turn to. I told my parents, but they didn't believe me.

But that's in the past. I can't let that shape me forever. If I do, he wins, and I can't let that happen. Here I am, with a man I can trust with my life. I am _not_ going to let Bartlett Hale ruin this for me. He's already disrupted enough of my life. I'm here with a good man; a man who loves me in his own fashion, even though he might not recognize it.

Eric hooks his fingers through the waistband of my panties and slides the slip of fabric down my legs. "You are beautiful, my Sookie," he purrs. Now there's nothing between us. His skin is cool and smooth, like satin draped over marble.

I would have said something, except he's kissing me again, and his hands are working magic all over my body. My fingers explore the contours of his muscles. He looks and feels as if he's been personally sculpted by God. I can feel his hardness pressed up against me; it is huge, and for someone with as little experience as me, it's a little daunting.

He slides his hand down south. I cry out in pleasure as he strokes me, testing to see if I am ready for him. Using only his fingers, he brings me to the crest of the wave. I rake my fingernails down his back, drawing small beads of blood. I am completely under his control. At least, for now. My body becomes as limp as jelly as I fall back onto the bed. And that was only the beginning!

He takes his time, making sure that I am ready; that I am not afraid. It's impossible to do away with first-time jitters entirely, but I know that Eric will not hurt me intentionally, and he's had a thousand years to practise his technique. Knowing Eric, he was not idle during those thousand years.

"Look at me, Lover," he rasps. "I want to see your eyes." They say that a man's eyes are windows into his soul, and I guess that applies for women too.

It's explosive; he might be large, but somehow, I manage to accommodate him. We fit together as if it's meant to be ever since the beginning of time. I tense when he first eases himself in —the pain is unavoidable, but it is brief, and I forget it when fiery pleasure spreads out from the core of my being. We ride the wave together, moving with one another, with him guiding me most of the time. Our eyes are locked. I see his passion, and I'm sure that mine is mirrored in his eyes. There is more to this union than just the physical. He throws his head back and cries out in an ancient tongue as he finds his release, the same time as I find mine. My voice joins his, although I'm not quite capable of forming proper syllables.

We lie with our limbs entwined. As per my dream, he traces his name on my skin, sending delightful shivers down my spine. His hair is fanned out all over the pillow, covering it with a layer of spun gold. I note that it's the same shade as my natural hair colour. His gentle touches lull me to sleep. It's either that, or I'm just exhausted from my 'adventures' at the Light of Day Institute.

I sleep for a long time. By the time I wake, it's three in the afternoon and I find that I'm trapped in a Viking's grasp. After a prolonged struggle, I finally free myself. Eric looks so…dead when he sleeps. I suppose vampire sleep is a lot more like death than actual sleep. I cover him with a sheet even though I know he won't get cold. It's a human thing.

Hot water washes the last remnants of sleep off me. I take the opportunity to think about everything that's happened. Like I said to him last night, I don't regret any of it. My body is sore, but mostly in a good way.

I order room service. They serve breakfast all day long; the humans who stay here mostly keep to vampire schedules. As I eat my buttered toast and scrambled eggs, my eyes fall on a brown wrapped package on my bed. I frown. That wasn't there earlier, of that I'm sure. After all those terrorist attacks in the past decade, I am wary. What if it's a bomb?

There's an insignia stamped on the package; that same coiled reptilian thing that was on the seal on the letter that Gran wrote to me. Now I don't think it's a bomb. Could it be…?

Inside is a CD case with a DVD inside. There's a letter too, and it's addressed to Eric. If it's for Eric, then why is it in _my_ room? Unless…

This is embarrassing. My grandfather —if it _is_ my grandfather who left the package— must have known that I was in the next room, in bed, with his best friend. When you put it that way, it sounds wrong. And to think that he most likely heard everything! We weren't exactly quiet.

My curiosity is killing me. What did my grandfather have to say? Why didn't he leave me a letter? Or didn't he want to get to know me? And if so, why? There are so many questions, and not nearly enough answers, as always. The main thing you learn in life is how much you really don't know and don't understand. Still, it doesn't stop us from trying to know everything, or pretend that we know everything.

Eric finds me in the living area of the suite when he wakes. He's still gloriously naked, but all his wounds have healed, and he seems to have completely recovered from his ordeal, which is more than I can say for myself. I guess I'm very new to all of this.

"Good evening, my lover," he says as he bends down to kiss me. I feel hot and bothered again, but there are things that need to be done so we can't stay in the hotel for the rest of our stay in Dallas. There is a gathering at Stan's nest tonight, where they'll deal with Hugo, amongst other things. Besides, there are other, more important matters that need dealing with right now.

"I found these on my bed," I say as I hand him the DVD and the letter. His demeanour immediately becomes serious as he sits down and breaks the seal of the envelope.

* * *

After all these years, he finally knows that Finn is not dead, and now he's made contact. _Finally_. If he ever saw that faerie, he was going to give him a piece of his mind. One simply did _not_ abandon friends like that, especially not friends who are almost like brothers. The letter is written in Old Swedish, probably to stop Sookie from reading the contents, even though Sookie is not the type to read other people's letters. It is short and to the point.

_My old friend_, it reads.

_The DVD contains the security footage of what went on in the church. It is the only copy of the footage; I have destroyed the rest. It will come in useful, of that I am certain. _

_Do not try to find me. I do not want you to become involved in more of my troubles, especially now that you know of my family. I do not want _them_ to turn up on their doorstep. I entrust you with the safety of my family, and I know that you will guard them as you once guarded me. For that, I thank you. _

_With greatest love and gratitude, _

_Finn_

He lets his hand fall. "What does it say?" asks Sookie. She is desperate to know. Should he tell her that her grandfather has appointed him to be her guardian? Not just hers, but her entire family's?

Finn might not want him to find him, but the Viking could not live with the thought that his friend was trying to best those psychopathic assassins all by himself. He'd needed help in the past, and there is no reason why anything has changed. But he was right about one thing too; if he got involved, he would be dragging Sookie and Jason and even _Hunter_ into all this mess, and the last thing he wanted was to put them in danger.

"Finn took the footage from the Fellowship of the Sun church," he says. "That's what the DVD is."

"Anything else?" she presses. She's intuitive, his Sookie, or else she's just applying her common sense and deducing that it doesn't take two paragraphs to talk about a DVD.

"He doesn't want us to look for him," says the Viking.

* * *

I am uneasy. I have been uneasy ever since Eric gave me a brief rundown of what Fintan wrote. Somewhere out there, my biological grandfather is being hunted by psychopathic faerie assassins and he's trying to lead them away from the rest of us. We might never have met before, but I know he cares, or else he wouldn't have intervened at the Fellowship of the Sun Church. He wouldn't have used himself as bait to lure away out enemies either.

Eric suspects that he is hiding in a large city with lots of steel; his human blood allows him to come into contact with iron without ill effects, whilst other faeries would sicken and die in a place like New York City.

There seems to be something else that's making me so nervous, but I'm not sure what. I can't stop thinking about what happened last night. The Fellowship is still out there, and Crazy Steve isn't going to just give up simply because his holy bonfire failed. If there's one thing I know about fanatics, then it's that they're _very _determined. I mean, look at Al Qaeda. No matter how you try to beat them down, they'll always rise up again until you deal with the cause of their madness. In the case of the Fellowship, the existence of people who don't think the way they do is enough to drive them crazy.

Still, I have to push those thoughts to the back of my mind for now; there is a formal vampire event that _I_, a human, have been invited to. I wear my brick red ruched Alexander Wang assymetrical one-shouldered jersey dress. I need to revert back to my real hair colour as soon as possible. It's not that there's anything wrong with being a brunette, but I just don't feel like myself. I don't look like myself either.

To add a bit of brightness to the sombre colours, I pair the dress with gold Jimmy Choo patent leather platform pumps and a gold Michael Kors woven leather envelope clutch, plus my gold Cartier watch and my Chanel studs. I put my hair into a loose chignon, letting more than a few wisps escape. I look formal, but not too formal.

Eric grins when he sees me. "You look delectable, Miss Stackhouse," he says, almost purring. I knew he would appreciate the exposed neck.

"You're not so bad yourself, Mr. Northman," I say playfully. That's an understatement. Eric is absolutely gorgeous —as always— with his tight black t-shirt, black jeans, leather jacket and boots. I love a man in boots. He's put his hair into a long braid down his back. There can be no mistake; this man is from a completely alien and exotic world.

"Well, then," he says as he offers me his arm. "Shall we?"

* * *

The 'party' is in full swing at the nest by the time we arrive. There are dozens of donors milling around. They wear special badges —black, with a red 'D'— unlike the pets, who are dressed normally and usually follow their vampires around.

A vampire party is a lot more like an orgy. I see people just about having sex on the sofa. Some vampires are socializing and a few feet away, another vampire is feeding, and the human being fed from is moaning in ecstasy. No one takes any notice. This is very different from any other party I've been to, and I must admit I am feeling a little uncomfortable. Usually, my sort of parties involves drinking and dancing. Sure, people have sex too, but they do it in private. I usually lock my bedroom door when I'm hosting a party at my place.

Godric sees us and gives us a ghost of a smile. He must be the palest vampire I have ever met, and vampires are pretty pale by nature. I don't think he's been eating. He seems so sad, so tired. How can I, a twenty five year old human, possibly even begin to understand how he must feel?

"Have you fed?" asks Eric of Godric.

Godric shakes his head. "I need very little blood," he says.

"But still, you must feed. You cannot have gotten much sustenance when in the Fellowship's basement."

Eric sounds jovial, but his joviality is forced. He knows exactly why his maker was in the basement of the Fellowship of the Sun church. Being such a strong vampire, Godric could have ripped all of them into pieces without getting scratched, and yet, he didn't. That tells me he actually wanted to be there. He wanted to die. Chances are, he still wants to die.

I can't imagine living so long that you tire of life. I suppose it is a possibility. Barisan mentioned that although magi can choose to be immortal, most of them select death in the end because they've just had enough. Sometimes, you just want to rest, and life is full of troubles and stress. Which is why people came up with the idea of 'Zen'. In the modern era, people will sell you peace, but it's not something you can actually buy. Unless you are one of _those_ amazing people, it's really hard to find peace while you're still alive. Being a vampire, that's got to be even harder.

Godric shakes his head. In a human, that would indicate that he has things he wants to say, but doesn't feel comfortable saying. I'm guessing that it would mean the same thing in a vampire. After all, vampires have retained many of their human attributes. They may have different instincts now, but some things don't change.

Compton was probably a jerk when he was human.

All of a sudden, I become aware of many minds surrounding the house. They are filled with hatred and anger, and they have one focus.

"Get down!" I scream.

I hear the roar of machine guns and smell the metallic scent of blood, tinged with gunpowder and smoke. Someone knocks me to the ground, covering me as bullets fly overhead. People are screaming. It's a warzone—no; the word 'war' implies that the other side gets to fight back. Right now, it's a massacre. Bullets have no eyes. They don't care who or what they hit; human, vampire or otherwise. I send up prayers to whoever's listening. I'm not quite ready to die yet, and this is my second brush with death in two days.

I'd like a break, thank you very much.

Finally, the gunfire ceases. I suspect they've run out of bullets. The entire house looks like an earthquake just shook it to pieces. The windows are shattered. There are more holes in the wall than cheese cloth, and bodies are strewn everywhere. It takes a while for me to realize that I'm still alive, and trapped under Eric.

"Eric?" I whisper hoarsely. He doesn't respond. "Eric!" I struggle to get out so I can see what's going on. For a moment, I can't breathe. What if…what if… I manage to turn him over. He's bleeding from several places where the bullets and shrapnel hit him. His eyes are closed. He is not moving, not breathing, he has no pulse… "God, no!" My voice breaks. I haven't even had the chance to tell him—wait, shouldn't he be gloop if he's really dead? I mean, he didn't have a pulse to begin with so that is no indication of death.

"Tell me, Sookie," says the Viking without opening his eyes. "What _would_ you do if I really died? Hypothetically speaking, that is."

"I'd open a bottle of champagne because you are _completely_ insufferable, Eric Northman!"


	14. Remember Me

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. They belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball.

**Chapter 14: Remember Me**

Eric climbs to his feet and helps me to mine. His body is already ejecting the bullets. I catch one as it falls out; it would be useful if someone could trace the weapon. Such evidence is viable in a court of law, unlike information garnered through telepathy, and if we can trace the weapon, then the weapon can be linked to the Fellowship. At least, that's the way I role. Vampires obviously think in a different way, because we make haste to evacuate the building and head for the Hotel Carmilla. Vampires don't want to deal with human authorities, period.

A few police cars pass us by as we drive to the hotel. The Fellowship has long since fled, which was smart of them. It wouldn't look good if they got caught pointing guns at a civilian house. Well, it's a civilian house as far as the human authorities are concerned. They don't know anything about the vampire hierarchy.

I don't see much of Eric after our arrival at the hotel. That's understandable. He's facing the equivalent of a suicidal parent and trying to talk him out of it. I wish I could help him, but what can _I_ do? I've never met a suicidal person until Godric, and he's not just any suicidal guy. He's a two thousand year old immortal who wants to die.

"Why would you be so cruel to keep me here against my wishes, Eric?" I hear Godric say during one of the brief moments when they revert to English. They're certainly not keeping their discussion a secret. Both of them must know that I'm right next door. "There is nothing more for me here."

"This is madness, Godric! It's irrational!"

"The entire existence of vampires is irrational. By rights, we shouldn't exist."

"And yet we do!" Eric pauses. "Godric, do not do this. I beg of you. I…I need you." Eric must be very desperate if he is admitting that he needs anything. I'd wanted to interrupt, but it just seems wrong to. This is a private moment between Eric and his maker. I understand what he must be feeling. I would have done anything to make Gran stay with me for one more day. The thought of death isn't half as daunting as the thought of losing someone you love.

The two vampires revert back to some ancient language that's probably extinct these days. I might not understand the words, but I understand the emotion behind those words. Godric is determined to die, and no matter how much Eric wants to persuade him to decide otherwise, my Viking is powerless in this matter. His pleas fall on deaf ears. I get teary-eyed myself. It's like…I dunno, losing Gran all over again, in a way. Godric to Eric is obviously what Gran was to me, and since I love Eric…you get the gist. At least Gran didn't have a choice. She didn't want to leave me. Godric is _choosing_ to die even though he knows that Eric loves and needs him.

It's four in the morning, and soon it will be dawn. Eric doesn't have long left to convince Godric. I don't have a choice. If I care about Eric, I'll have to put in my two cents.

I knock on the door between the rooms before opening it. "Godric?" I ask. "Can I speak with you in private?" I suppose I could have done it with Eric there as well, but I don't want to bruise his pride. I know how proud he is; he is unwilling to show weakness to anyone, not even me. Maybe especially not me.

Eric is reluctant to leave, but he trusts that I'm only trying to help, and he seems…well, exhausted. He's run out of things to say, apart from plead, and that's not working. His face is streaked with red, and it takes me a while to realize that he hasn't been injured; he's been crying.

"He really needs you, Godric," I say once Eric has left. Yeah, that's my best strategy; repeating what Eric has said in the hopes that it might make more of an impact. Because, let's face it, I'm human, and Godric has the greatest respect for humanity. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out. And if a human thinks that he belongs here, then maybe he might change his mind. Hopefully. Maybe. Fingers crossed.

"No," says Godric. "You're the one he needs."

"Wait, what? No. He doesn't need me. _I_ need him and he needs you. It's a big messy cycle, and without you, the rest of us are going to topple like dominos." Okay, I don't really know what I'm saying here. It made more sense in my head. "Please, Godric. The world needs people like you."

"Do you really think so?" he asks. He seems surprised.

"Of course!" I insist.

"But I do not belong here. My kind are…not right."

"Believe me, there is no cruelty that vampires are capable of that humans aren't. Violence is not exclusive to the race of vampires. There's too much bad in the world and we need people like you to make things right. You've got to be able to see that."

"You have a great deal of faith in me, Miss Stackhouse," says Godric. "Perhaps more than you should."

"I don't presume to know you at all, Godric, but I know Eric, and he loves you. Plus, he's got to have gotten his nobility from somewhere."

"Eric is inherently noble."

"Maybe, but you're up there with him. You didn't need to save me from Mono-brow —"

"Mono-brow?" Godric seems amused by my nickname for Gabe. Well, that's a start. I'm glad to have been entertaining.

"Gabe. You didn't need to save me from him, but you did."

"I killed a man in the process. Perhaps I should not have."

"Believe me, if you hadn't killed him, he'd have killed me."

"You do not understand. I have lived for two millennia and seen all the darkness in the world. It is enough for me."

"But how are things going to change for the better when people who want to see things change end up killing themselves because all the bad things have made them too depressed?"

"You do not pull punches, do you, Miss Stackhouse? You make me sound so selfish."

"Well, I _do_ think you're a bit selfish to just leave all these problems for other people to figure out. Are you going to be angry with me now?"

"Anger is such a tiring emotion, and I do not think I have that sort of energy anymore. But yes, I concede that I am being a little selfish."

"So…?" Uh huh, I'm very eloquent.

"You believe I should stay and fight for what I believe in."

"I do."

"But vampires should not exist."

"Says who?"

"We are not natural."

"If God didn't mean for you to exist, wouldn't He have smote you down already? I mean, He's omnipotent and omnipresent, right?"

"And if there is no God?"

"Then evolution would have done away with you and you'd have gone the way of the Woolly Mammoth. Believe me, if you're here, then you're meant to be here, for whatever purpose."

"What if it does not work? What if goodness cannot triumph over evil?"

"Then there's probably still time to kill yourself afterwards."

Godric chuckled. "You have the answer to everything, don't you?" he asks.

"I think I'm just too young to realize that I don't know anything."

* * *

"Come on, girl! You gotta give the details! All of 'em! Tara Thornton ain't a believer of censorship for whatever the reason."

I would have thought that _Tara_ ought to be the one to tell me what's going on. I mean, I found her in bed with Barisan as soon as I walked in the door of _my _apartment. Actually, they were on the sofa, but that's just beside the point. The point is that my best friend was sleeping with the best friend of the guy _I'm_ sleeping with. And isn't Barisan supposed to be watching Hunter, not wooing Tara?

No, I'm not really buying his claim of being able to multi-task. That's just wrong, at any rate.

Tara and I are having our traditional Sunday breakfast in my living room. The low coffee table is covered with cups of Starbucks, bowls of Norma Jean's special French hot chocolate, plates of pastries as well as cute little jars of jam and a tiny little tub of soft butter. I know it's bad, but I love my croissants with butter. I dunk my croissant into my bowl of hot chocolate and take a bite. Heaven.

"Fine," I say. "But you've got to tell me everything first. What the fuck are you doing with Barisan?"

"Face it, Sook, he's hot," says Tara. "And he's funny and smart and he's got class. What's not to like?"

"You know he has thirty plus children all around the world, don't you?" I ask.

"He told me," says Tara. "And he also told me that he can't have a steady relationship, ever. It's forbidden by his order for some reason or another. Anyway, I'm not going to try and hold down a guy like him. That would be like trying to catch moonlight in a jar. I'm just happy to have him for however long I'll have him. Not all of us have a handsome Viking waiting, Sook."

"Eric is not waiting for me or for anyone," I say.

"I'd comment on that if I knew anything about what's going on between you two," says Tara. "Well, spill. I told you everything, or do you want to know the sordid details too? God knows I'm not shy enough to not share them."

I know I can trust Tara with anything. She's like a sister to me. We've known each other since grade school. I remember I was being picked on by one of the popular girls, and Tara stepped in, all guns blazing —we were six, but my friend knew a great deal of words that a girl of her age shouldn't have known— and got into a fight with the girl. Tara got detention for it, and since then, we were nigh inseparable.

I tell her about what happened at the Fellowship of the Sun church. I tell her about Fintan, about the friendship between the half-faerie prince, the Viking vampire, and the French-Greek-Middle-Eastern warlock. I tell her about the night Eric and I spent at the hotel and I tell her about Godric.

I'm actually surprised that my intervention worked. I mean, what I said sounded like something out of a self-help book. Perhaps a little bit of commercial psychotherapy was what Godric needed, although I would never have expected it. Vampires and psychotherapy don't seem to go together.

Except Pam, who swears by 'Dear Abby' and is a big fan of said commercial psychotherapy.

Maybe it's hereditary?

At any rate, Godric agrees to not meet the sun at present —I barely keep from jumping up and down and pumping my fist in the air because there are no words to describe how it feels to convince someone that there is something worth living for.

He and Eric decide that it's best if he comes back to New York with us since there is nothing left for him here in Texas. I don't really know the details of that arrangement, but that's because it's none of my business.

Tara listens, wide-eyed. She doesn't interrupt me even once, which is unlike her. Watching movies with her is like having the running commentary on.

"Shit, Sook," she says when I finish my convoluting narrative. "That's _serious_. I knew he liked you, but I didn't know he liked you _that_ much. Jesus! He's a keeper, that one."

"We're not in a committed relationship, Tara," I say. "I mean, I don't intend to have multiple partners at a time, coz that's just not me, but I don't expect him to stick to me only either. He's got his reputation and his needs and I get that."

"So…you're…friends with benefits?"

"I guess."

"That's not like you, Sookie. You're all about commitment and romance. What happened to all that?"

"Life's too short to waste on fantasies. What if there_ is_ no Mr. Right? I…I guess I just didn't want to die a virgin. I'm fond of Eric, and there's no one else I'd rather have as my first."

"Can you see yourself being in love with him?"

"Yes…but I'm _not_."

"You like him, right?"

"Very much."

"And the sexual chemistry is obviously there, so in all essence, you're pretty much in love with him anyway."

"Even if I _do_ fall in love with him, which I'm totally not going to, the sentiment will probably be one-sided. I'm not going to set myself up for that sort of heartbreak."

"Aw, I wouldn't say that. I mean, what guy would give his life for you if he didn't love you?"

"That's because he's a responsible and genuinely good person who really cares about me and loves me in his own way, but he's not_ in_ love with me. There's a difference."

"How do you know that? I thought you couldn't read his mind."

"I can't, but I know him well enough to know that he won't fall in love with anybody. That sort of attachment is just too irrational for him."

"Sweetie, have you even spoken to him since you got back?"

The truth is, I haven't. We've both just been so busy; me with board meetings and dealing with nervous shareholders, and him with vampire administration as well as bar stuff. I haven't even had time to turn on the TV or go on Facebook. If not for multiple newspaper articles in the business section, one might have thought I'd disappeared off the face of the earth. I haven't even managed to have lunch with Hunter and Remy, and after seeing his —rather nice— arse out of my apartment, I haven't seen Barisan either even though he's living in the same building as me right now.

Hale Industries isn't doing as well as it ought to. Granted, we are in a recession and everyone is suffering, but our shareholders are getting nervous anyway. I don't know much about economics, but I do know that if people start selling our shares in bulk, the company will crash. It's either that, or another company will snap it up and partition it or something, and our employees will be unemployed. I'm not opposed to the idea of a merger, but it will have to be one which benefits the employees the most. They can't afford to lose their jobs.

As for Eric, rumour has it that there's a new critter in town. I bumped into Alcide the other day when taking a wee break from CEO duties and perusing the bookshop, and he told me that a woman called Hallow Stonebrook was threatening all the supe-owned businesses in NYC for protection money. At first, I wondered what manner of idiot would dare to threaten Eric, but then Alcide clarified for me. Hallow Stonebrook was the leader of a coven of witches, and witches, apparently, could "make your life hell." His words, not mine.

"Then we're going tonight," says Tara.

"What?" I gape at her. She's already envisioning a huge wedding, for God's sake! And not her own, I might add. There are several things wrong with that picture. One, vampire-human marriages are not legal in anywhere except Vermont, and two, it's a daytime wedding that she's imagining.

"You heard me. The key to maintaining and developing a relationship is communication."

"You've been reading far too many self-help books!"

"Actually, I learnt that from watching _Bridget Jones' Diary_, but whatever. The only reason her relationship with Colin Firth deteriorated was because they _didn't_ communicate properly, leading to misunderstandings."

"One, Tara, Bridget Jones and I don't have anything in common, apart from being blonde and single —and I happen to be brunette at the moment— and two, Eric and I are not in a _relationship _of any sort!"

"Keep telling yourself that, darling," says my friend. "Well, if you're not going to go and see Eric, at least come with me to see Pam. You've got no objection to her now, do you? Tonight's her night off; we could go shopping!"

Wait, what happened? I knew Pam and Tara got along, but all of a sudden, did they become best friends whilst I was off gallivanting with Eric? Tara the Stylist and Pam the Fashionista Vampire; they would make a force to be reckoned with. Fashion criminals had better watch out.

* * *

Sunday is Fangtasia's least busy night. The queue isn't very long, although there is still a queue. Pam is delighted to see us, or rather, me. "Good, you're here," she says without so much as a 'hello'. Vampire etiquette is quite different from human etiquette. "Perhaps you can talk some sense into him."

"What?" I say. Yeah, that's a really smart response, but what else am I supposed to do?

"Come in," says Pam as she practically pulls me through the club towards the back. "Godric and that goddamned warlock refuse to interfere, and he won't listen to Chow or me." I presume she's talking about Eric. I'm suddenly cautious. If both Godric and Barisan don't want to get involved, then perhaps I shouldn't get involved either. I mean, they've both known Eric for much longer than I have.

"Pam, what's going on?" I ask. I mean, she hasn't even ogled my breasts _or_ my outfit. That's slightly worrying.

"Sookie, as part of the supernatural community, you should keep up with the news," says Pam. "There's a new gang in town."

"You mean the witches?" I ask.

"What witches?" asks Tara. "You mean there are such things as witches? Wait, don't answer that. I slept with a warlock."

"So you do know," says Pam. "Well, they've tried to get us to pay protection money. Fifty percent of profits from all of Eric's businesses."

"And what did Eric say?" I ask.

"To put it simply, he said no, but not so politely," says Pam. "However, they've come back with another proposal, and if Eric sleeps with the head witch for five nights a week, they'll cut it down to twenty five percent."

"And…?"

"I want you to get Eric to agree. He is not being cooperative."

"You want me to convince him to pimp himself out?" No way in the world was I doing _that_. One, Pam ought to know better, and two, there is no way I'm going to try and get the guy I'm sleeping with to sleep with other women. Turning a blind eye —as long as he's discreet— is one thing. Actively encouraging it is another thing entirely.

"Can't Barisan do something about those witches?" asks Tara. "I thought he was some sort of supernatural peacekeeper or somethin'."

"Until they threaten humans, not really," says Pam. "Warlocks can't interfere with any business. Besides, I don't think one warlock is enough to deal with those witches. They're powerful, and fuelled by vampire blood."

"Great," I mutter. How are we going to get out of this one? Wait…we? Well, I suppose Eric is my friend and fuck-buddy, so it is kinda my business too.

"So?"

"I don't think acquiescing is the way to go," I say.

"Hah, so there _is_ something going on between you two! I knew it!"

"Wait...what? Where did that come from?"

"_You're_ probably the reason he won't cooperate!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Pam. Eric doesn't have that sort of irrational attachment. You know that."

"A couple of months ago, that might be true, but now, I'm not so sure."

We're standing in front of Eric's closed office door. I can hear voices coming from within. A female voice, probably the junior witch that I'm detecting, and Eric's icy tones. Pam opens the door without knocking. I suppose that being Eric's child means that she can be as rude as he is.

I guess I don't look like I belong in Fangtasia. Again. Nothing new there, really. I guess I should take the stare as a compliment. It means I'm far too classy to be mistaken for a donor.

The witch is staring at me in surprise. I'm surprised by her appearance too. She looks so young, like she ought to be in college instead of threatening thousand year old vampires who can snap her neck with two fingers. Actually, I'm wondering why Eric hasn't done anything to her yet. I don't think it's his diplomatic nature. In her mind, I see a tall and imposing woman who probably could use a makeover, because she looks more like a football quarterback and her clothes looks like they're from the eighties, all shoulder pads and sequins and black.

"So?" she asks Eric.

"I have given your mistress my answer," says Eric. "And it's no. The day I fuck her is the day I cease to Eric Northman."

"You will regret it," says the young witch. "My mistress will make sure you will lose everything that you hold dear. You will have nothing left."

"Bring it on," snarls Eric.

The witch turns on her heel and pushes past Pam, bumping me with her shoulder as she strides out of the door.

"Milord," Chow begins. "I know you are not amenable to the idea, but perhaps you should—"

"Chow, I said no and I mean no and no matter how many times you ask me to reconsider my answer will still be no," says Eric.

"I mean no offence, milord, but I am worried—"

"You are worried that the witches will take over my principality and you will lose your job, or perhaps your life."

"I am only thinking of your position, milord," says Chow. "I have very little to lose. With no power, no one will target me, but you are vulnerable." He does his three steps backwards and then leaves to return to the bar.

"See?" Pam hisses into my ear. "Talk to him, and get him to drink something other than that bottled piss. It's messing with his mind and I'm convinced they put preservatives in it, no matter what they say." Her stiletto heels click on the vinyl floor as she stalks out of Eric's office.

Tara turns to leave as well, but I grab onto her arm. No _way_ is she leaving me in this awkward situation all alone. "Nuh uh, Sook," she whispers. "I'm not getting' involved. This is way over my head." Then she leaves me too. Some friend.

Eric regards me from beneath heavy brows. He is not smiling, not that he has a lot to smile about at the moment. "I'm surprised that you're here," he says. Not discussing the witches? I suppose I don't know anything about witches, but still. That's gotta be at the forefront of his thoughts at the moment.

"I'm surprised too," I say. "If Tara hadn't dragged me down here, believe me, I'd be at home."

"You didn't want to come?" he asks. He sounds...disappointed?

"No…yes…I...Eric, look," I begin. "I've just been really busy, what with all the shareholders getting jittery …you know how it is, and I—"

I never get to finish my pathetic excuse, because at that moment, the lights go out for me.

* * *

She just drops for no reason whatsoever. If he didn't catch her, she'd have hit her head on the floor and it wouldn't have been pretty. That floor's pretty hard. "Sookie!" he says, shaking her, hoping to wake her up. What is wrong with her? She's breathing, and her pulse seems normal. She doesn't smell as if there's anything wrong with her either.

Her eyes open, and he is relieved, although not for long. "What the fuck, Eric?" she snaps, startling him completely. What did he do? She pushes herself out of his arms. "What do you think you're doing? I told you. I'm Bill's!"

This is Loki's doing. It has to be.

* * *

I have no idea why I'm in Eric Northman's office, and why I'm wearing this tiny dress that's almost obscene. I mean, it looks like it's made out of bandages. And the shoes. Oh God, the shoes! I can't even walk in them. When I push Eric away, I topple over again and fall against the sofa in his office. "Is this your idea of a joke? Because, believe me, it's not funny."

"It's not a joke, Sookie," he says. "You came to me."

"As if," I say. I kick off the shoes, and for the first time, I notice the red soles. I don't remember a lot about clothes, but don't the red soles mean that these are the expensive shoes designed by that French guy? Pam must be in on this. I'm a barista working at Merlotte's. I can't afford designer clothes.

Eric curses under his breath and takes out his phone to make a call. Moments later, Pam zooms in, with Tara hot on her heels. Tara. What's Tara doing here?

"Sook?" says Tara. "What's wrong?" She sees the shoes on the floor. _'Mistreating Louboutins?' _she thinks. _'Something's really fucked up.' _

"I'm here, that's what's wrong," I say.

"Where else are you supposed to be?"

"Anywhere _else_ but here. Where's Bill?"

"Bill who?" Tara gives me a blank look.

"Bill Compton, the guy I've been dating for the past two months." I put my hands on my hips and notice the gold watch on my wrist. It looks expensive. Where did I get it?

"Uh…no he's not," says Tara. "You haven't been 'dating' anyone in the past two months, and you've never dated Bill Compton."

"I'm pretty sure I know who I slept with, Tara." A lady usually doesn't kiss and tell, but this is an extraordinary time. They're all looking at me as if I'm crazy; as if I don't know who I am, which I totally do.

"I'm…pretty sure you don't."

I glance around for confirmation. Eric is being awfully quiet, and he's on the phone again, this time talking in something that sounds like French. Then again, it could be Greek.

"Sookie, Compton kidnapped you," says Tara gently.

"No, he didn't," I say.

"Yes, he did. It was on national news and _America's Most Wanted_. I can show you if you want."

Now I'm completely confused. How come I don't remember any of it? Tara asks to borrow Eric's computer. I'm surprised that they even know each other. She taps furiously on the keys and comes up with the video on YouTube. I see Jason in a tux, Tara in some outrageous top and beautiful skinny jeans with high heels that look more like stilts.

And then there's a picture of Bill in the corner of a screen. He's with me and I'm in some ruffled confection of a dress.

All of a sudden, it falls into place. I turn around to glare at Eric.

"You!" I scream. "You set it all up so that Bill would look guilty!"

Eric looks like I just slapped him. Just then, a man appears in the doorway of Eric's office, and if I weren't so mad, I'd have noticed how good-looking the guy is.

"Thank Odin and Thor and all the gods above!" says Eric. "What took you so long, you dastardly Frenchman?"

"There was a late night seminar on Crusader culture at the Met," says the newcomer. "And I'm half Greek."

* * *

"What do you remember about yourself, Sookie?" Barisan asks gently.

"I'm a barista at Merlotte's, my grandmother died of a brain tumour a while ago, and my only remaining family is my brother," says Sookie.

"Where do you live?" asks Barisan.

"In Queens," says the girl.

Barisan gives Eric a nod. The Viking quickly takes note of the address that Sookie gives to the warlock and then he sends Chow there to investigate. A few moments later, Chow texts back that there is indeed an empty flat there, but he can't see inside because the curtains are drawn, but he can smell the scent of the were-bitch who tried to extort money out of him, even if the scent is old. Eric punches his thigh, feeling very helpless.

"There's nothing I can do right now," Barisan tells him in French. "Her memory's been replaced the spell used is very complicated."

"Can't you reverse it?" Eric demands.

"If I try, I might damage her mind forever," says Barisan. "The mind is a very fragile thing."

"You're a warlock," says Eric.

"Yes, but I am not a neurosurgeon," says the man. "Nor am I a miracle worker. She doesn't even remember Hunter and Remy. It's going to be difficult not letting the entire world know that there's something wrong with her."

Oh, shit. With the paparazzi stalking her, it's going to be nigh impossible. Eric rubs his temples. For the first time in a thousand years, he thinks he has a headache coming on. He never thought he'd lose Sookie like this. And Finn entrusted her safety to him! He is doing such a great job. If it weren't for him, Sookie wouldn't be like this. Of course, the witches had a big part to play, and for that they will pay.

He'll do whatever it takes to help Sookie get herself back, short of acquiescing to the witches' requests. There is an emptiness inside him that he never knew he had. Wait…is he getting sentimental? That's just fucking brilliant. Too bad he can't get drunk anymore. Getting drunk might have helped him to clear his head. Ever since he met Sookie, he's been feeling…a little strange.

"Eric?" says another voice. A welcome one.

"Who's the cutie?" asks Tara.

"I do not believe I've ever been called cute before, madam," says Godric, "but I shall take it as a compliment. Eric, what is going on? I came down here as soon as I sensed something."

"Who are you?" asks Sookie. "Are you in on this too? This whole framing Bill for kidnapping thing?" Godric raises his eyebrow at Sookie. Every vampire knows about the 'Bill Compton Case'. Vampires are very much aware of current affairs, both in the supe world and in the human world. In this case, it's an incident that spans both worlds.

"I don't know, Godric," says Eric. It's one of the few times that he's admitted he's not certain about what's going on around him. Usually, he's completely in control, no matter what happens. However, now? He has no idea what to do, only that he must do something to remedy this.

"You sure know a helluva lot more than I do," says Tara. "Would anyone mind explaining this to me? Why does Sookie think she's a fucking barmaid who's developed Stockholm Syndrome?"

* * *

I think they're telling the truth. At least, about the kidnapping. Bill really did kidnap me, kill a doorman in the process, and then he took me to Louisiana to be Queen Sophie-Ann's pet. It was Eric who rescued me from a lifetime of servitude, along with the hot French guy. I mean, someone had to have kidnapped me in order for there to be a story about it, right? I'm unlikely to have faked my own kidnapping, and I don't remember being kidnapped. According to them, I'm just a bloodbag to Bill. It comes as a shock. I can't really accept it. I love Bill, and I thought he loved me too. Apparently not. And Eric? Rescuing me? Unlikely. Yet, someone had to have rescued me, and he's the only one who has that kind of power.

I find out that I'm actually a rich woman who owns a large company called Hale Industries, which Gran left to me. Jesus, Shepherd of Judea! They say that I'm under a spell, which is why I think I'm a barmaid when I'm actually a rich socialite. I have no clue. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know who my friends are anymore, apart from Tara. I don't know what's the truth. What they tell me clashes completely with what _I_ remember. Although, granted, my memory is faulty at the moment.

"So let's assume that you're telling me the truth about me," I say to them. I don't trust Eric. He's a slimy ruthless manipulative bastard…except maybe I'm wrong about him too and those witches have really done a number on my mind. I can't even trust myself anymore! God, I'm so confused! "What do we do next?"

"We find the location of those responsible and then we're going to fix it," says Eric. "I swear to you, Sookie. You will remember who you are."


	15. Seduced Like Magic

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize.

**A/N: **I probably won't be able to update as frequently after this chapter, as journalism school starts up again tomorrow. I'll try and do what I can, but there are no guarantees.

**Chapter 15: Seduced Like Magic**

They all refuse to let me out of sight, until I point out that one, I'm not stupid enough to run back to a man who allegedly kidnapped me until I get to the bottom of all of this, and two, vampires can't stay awake during the day unless they want to end up looking like the bacon that I fry up for breakfast. Wait…do I even _eat_ breakfast?

Tara and the French guy —who is, apparently, her new flame— volunteer to take me home. I'm looking forward to being in my own bed and pretending that I _do_ know who I am. And then I get another shock when I realize that I have a personal _driver_. And a shiny black Mercedes. Plus, I live in a penthouse on the Upper East Side, not a dingy little flat in Queens. Oh, God. Either this is a very elaborate trick, or they're absolutely right. I really _have_ lost my mind and gotten it replaced with someone else's.

I stare at wonder at my own limo and then blink dumbly as light flashes in my face.

"Damn the paps," Tara mutters as she ushers me into the spacious backseat of the car. There's a mini-bar. In the car. My car, actually.

'_Sook, try to act like you're used to this_,' Tara thinks at me. _'You don't wanna scare your driver._'

Oh, right. My driver. En route to my place, which I can't remember, Tara —mentally— tells me that I've known the driver, Louis, my entire life, and that he's more like a favourite uncle than 'one of the help'. I don't think I will ever get used to having 'help', except that's something that the other me has always been accustomed to. God, this is so weird. I'm thinking of my other self as if she's a completely different person. Although, I guess, she _is_ a completely different person. I mean, she actually _likes_ Eric. Crazy woman. Or am _I_ the crazy one? Why am I still thinking about myself in third person? I need a drink. A stiff one.

I pour myself a glass of bourbon from the mini-bar. No gin and tonic here. The liquid warms my throat and my chest. I feel a little bit better, although the state of my head hasn't improved. And why am I brunette? I distinctly remember being blonde, unless I'm wrong about that too. It wouldn't be the first time.

"You don't mind, do you?" asks Barisan suddenly. I'm still not sure what his deal is, or even what he is. I mean, I can't read him at all. He's not even a void. He's just…not there on my mental radar. He reaches for a bottle of Chartreuse. "You should attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings," Tara ribs him.

"One cannot be counted as an alcoholic unless one is completely dependent on drink, which I am not," says Barisan. "Besides, if I'm to be an alcoholic, then I sure as hell am not going to be an anonymous one."

"Drunkard."

"Nag."

"Horndog."

"Seductress."

"That's not an insult!"

I can't get a grip on the strange dynamic between the two, although, if I remember correctly —of which there is no guarantee— then this new guy is much better than Tara's ex-husband, even though I don't really trust him because he and Eric seem pretty close. He's kinda entertaining, though. Focusing on other people helps me to forget about my own problems, at least until the car pulls up outside a gorgeous building that looks more like a palace —to me, anyway.

'_You're gaping, Sook_,' Tara reminds me. I shut my mouth. No matter what the truth is, I can decide on one thing. I have to act as if there's nothing wrong with me, that there is nothing unusual about me. If I pretend that I belong here, then no one's going to give me a second glance, or so I hope. The foyer has marble walls, and glass-topped coffee tables and lush leather armchairs where people can have a nap while they wait. The doorman holds open the door for me, and he even wears those white gloves. It's _really_ hard not to stare.

The elevators have gold-framed mirrors for walls, and the buttons are made of polished wood. Everything is so opulent. I can't believe I _own_ this place. Well, Jason and me. Tara and her 'friend with benefits' fill me in on some details as we take the elevator up to my penthouse. Jason lives two floors below me, and between us is Gran's old apartment. I haven't remembered wrongly; Gran is still gone, and it's almost like losing her all over again. I hear something about a serial killer in Tara's head. The killer was going after girls who slept with vampires, and somehow I decided to lure him out —the other 'me' is crazy, I have decided— by pretending to date Eric. I even let him bite me. Ew.

Yeah, I'm digging in my own best friend's head for my own history. So sue me. I just got my memory replaced, if not my entire personality. I'm allowed to be a little off-kilter.

God, am I still Sookie Stackhouse?

The elevator bell rings, signalling that we've reached my floor.

* * *

It's exhausting, trying not to let Sookie find out _everything_ all at once from reading her mind. Tara can't blame her friend for being curious —or desperate— but it's simply not good for her to find out some of the more shocking aspects of what happened to her and her family. For example, Adele's murder, and her non-relationship with Eric.

It's probably wrong for her to feel sorry for Eric, but she does. She might not of have liked him in the beginning, but she can see that he cares deeply about Sookie, and before her mind got fucked up by those witchy bitches, Sookie was clearly in love with Eric, even if she wouldn't admit it. She guides Sookie over to the sofa. The poor girl is staring at everything with wide eyes as if she's an impoverished country cousin from Hicksville. It's going to be difficult to teach her enough about herself to let her put on a good show as the CEO of Hale Industries. She wonders if this Sookie is any better at acting than the original Sookie.

She's promised to keep an eye on the girl twenty-four seven…and to keep her from finding out about her little cousin until she's back to her own normal self. In her state of mind, it's just not safe. It might feel a little underhanded, but Barisan insists that it's for the safety of the kid. He seems to be more worried about Hunter than he is about Sookie, and Tara has had too much experience with people in general to not notice that he's hiding something. Probably not a bad something, but still, there is something he's not telling her.

Granted, they've known each other for less than a week, so it's no surprise that she doesn't know everything about this eight hundred year old plus warlock. She probably never will. His mystery is what attracted her to him in the first place. That, and his bronzed toned body. And the way he was so enthusiastically cursing at the computer for beating him at chess again. Wait, going off-topic here. Her _friend_ is her priority right now, not some geeky Harry Potter wannabe, no matter how hot how good in bed he is.

"You don't have to babysit me, you know," says Sookie a little irritably. "I'm just going to head to bed."

"I promised Eric, Sook," says Tara, "and who knows what else might be out to get you? There's safety in numbers."

"That's just an excuse, Sookie," says Barisan. "She's not staying for you; she's staying for me."

"And _you're_ staying to guard me so in the end, it's all the same," retorts Sookie.

"Whether it's the same or not, I'll leave it up to you to decide," says Barisan, "but no matter your decision, we're not going anywhere, so you might as well get used to it."

* * *

She said she was Compton's. It shouldn't annoy him that much, but it does, and even though he knows that Sookie has never been Bill's —and never will be once she gets her memories and personality restored— he's still feeling…

Well, threatened would be the word that normal people used, but Eric Northman can hardly feel _threatened_ by some century and a half old upstart who thinks he's something when he's really nothing. If this were the Serengeti, Eric would be the alpha male lion and Compton would be the dung beetle.

"Eric, you are being irrational again," says Pam. He can sense her exasperation. She hates that he feels this way, especially about a human. In fact, he's wondering about this himself. Sure, Sookie is Finn's granddaughter and he feels obligated to protect her out of loyalty to his friend, but he's not just upset because he failed to do so. He feels upset because he feels like he's lost something. "You're not helping us any by being frustrated."

He glares at her, and she pouts before going back out into the main part of the club to terrorize the patrons. Business must still go on. It's important to not let the world know that there's something wrong in the Principality of New York City. To show cracks in the façade would be to invite trouble.

He needs to detach himself from his emotions. All these years, he's tried to achieve the ultimate rationality. He wants to become like…his computer. It understands numbers, and it can beat him —and anyone else— at chess. And, unless there's a virus or dust in the hard drive or water on the keyboard or a crack somewhere, it's going to function in a set formulaic way. It is perfect, cool, hard…and dead. _That's_ what he should be.

But, try as he might, he cannot achieve such a state of being. He loves Pam. He would give his life for her. And for Godric. And for Finn. And for Barisan. And…Sookie. Perhaps it is time for him to realize that even though his heart no longer beats, it is still very much alive. All this time, he's been in denial.

He's still in denial.

The Viking summons his child, who comes in a moment later and leans against the door frame of his office. "You're in a mood," she says.

"Cut the crap and get me a blonde, a brunette and a redhead, the most curvaceous you can find, preferably with natural assets," says Eric. "I'm thirsty."

"At once, Your Royal Highness," says Pam with a mock curtsey.

* * *

I hope this is all a nightmare, a bad dream. When I wake up, I hope I'm going to be whoever I'm supposed to be, whether it's socialite or barista.

When I wake up, I still feel like a barista living in a billionaire's penthouse. My ensuite bathroom is huge, like the size of a normal living room, with a Jacuzzi _and_ a separate shower. The tiles of the wall and the floor are dark blue —so dark that they're almost black— and sprinkled with white specks so that it feels like I'm showering in the middle of the starry night sky. The water is strong and hot, and the floor is heated so that my feet don't get cold when I step out.

If I step out, that is. Steam fills the room and fogs up the wide full length mirror. I might not like the things that my other self has done, but I am in love with her bathroom. Seriously, it's sinful. My fingertips end up looking like raisins and I start feeling guilty about all the poor children in Africa who don't have clean drinking water before I actually step out of the shower and wrap a thick soft fluffy blue towel around my body. There's an array of cosmetics arranged on the counter top. The labels are mostly in foreign languages, but I recognize moisturizer and am able to differentiate between that and the clay facial masque, mainly because the masque is grainy and feels like pottery clay.

My other self is obviously a clothes fiend, because her wardrobe looks like a double bedroom in a smaller apartment, with row upon row of coats and dresses, and an entire wall dedicated to shoes. Most of them I wouldn't be able to walk in and they look more like weapons than shoes. I'm dismayed to find that there's only one pair of sneakers in the entire collection, and they're down near the floor, hidden in a dark corner. I put those on and then manage to find a purple sweatshirt and faded denim cut-offs. I'm just putting my hair in a ponytail when Tara knocks on the door and comes in before I can tell her to come in.

"Oh, _hell_ no, Sook!" she says when she sees me. Whatever happened to saying 'good morning'? "You are _not_ wearing that outside."

"Why not?" I ask. The sweatshirt's cute; it has a sparkly butterfly on the front, and denim cut-offs are always good, aren't they?

"You might not remember it, but you have a reputation to uphold," says Tara. She starts going through the clothes in the wardrobe at a rapid pace and selects a beige silk shirt, an outrageously printed skirt, and a pair of shoes that I reject outright because of the height. Finally, she relents and lets me wear a pair of flat 'Chelsea' boots. Sneakers, I find out, are only to be worn inside a gym. I'm not even allowed to wear them on the way _to_ the gym. Not even if I'm in the limo. She takes out my ponytail and spritzes hairspray into my hair to make it look suitably tousled and sexy, yet put-together. She even does my make-up for me. It's like…I'm a toddler and I need help getting dressed, which I totally don't. That sweatshirt did the job just fine, and I don't like looking so fancy on a normal day. It's not like I have a hot date —although some might dispute that.

"You _do_ need help," Tara insists, giving the discarded sweatshirt a pointed and disdainful look. "That's what you wear to bed during winter; Jason gave it to you for Christmas."

When she's done with me, I don't look like myself. Well, I don't look like who I think I am, which is apparently not who I am. Lost yet?

She then hands me a list of things which I have to do today, which mainly involves shopping and being seen in public, although there's a meeting with shareholders, which freaks me out. She then makes me 'google' myself on the computer, just to catch up on what I've done in the past so that if people ever ask me about it, I can at least think up a suitable answer.

I'm shocked by the pictures of Eric Northman and me…with me in a man's shirt! Tara assures me that nothing went on, although I think she's hiding something from me. There's even a bite mark on my neck and yes, I used to be blonde. Not sure why I'm _not_ blonde right now. However, it does look as if I'm wrong about Eric and everyone else is correct. He seems rather protective of me in the pictures, although that could just be an act.

"When the paparazzi ask questions, just ignore them," Tara says as she hands me a straw fedora and a pretty tan bag with the softest textured leather. She says it's from a shop called 'air may'. I'm a bit confused, because it says 'Hermes' on the label with one of those funny French dashes above the E, but then she explains that's how the French say it. God, I have so much to learn! Did my other self know French?

* * *

Eric glares at his vampires, daring them to tell him that they've found nothing. His temper has been rather short these days, but he feels so out of control. Most of his vampires have been tiptoeing around him as if they were walking on thin ice. Chow, however, is not just any vampire. He is one who served in the Qing Emperor's imperial elite guard. Very little fazes him. "We have found nothing so far, milord," says Chow, bowing his head—yet another habit left over from his time in the Qing Imperial Court.

"Then why did you even come back?" demands Eric. The girls last night didn't do anything except remind him of what he's missing. His feisty smart classy young ward is…doing his head in. Chow does not say anything. Where is Pam, anyway? She is supposed to be at this meeting too.

Finally, his child barges in, late and smug.

"The meeting was scheduled for seven thirty," says Eric.

"Better late than never, and I got results," says Pam, waving a flier and a ticket.

"Explain," says Eric.

"Well, since you asked so nicely…" begins Pam.

"Pam!"

"Well, remember how you said that witches sometimes need to draw on the power of ancient artefacts, preferably ones that were either used for killing or sex, or both, in order to supplement their own insufficient powers?" says Pam. "Well, I acted on a hunch and went to the Museum of Natural History and the place reeked of fake Ralph Lauren Polo shirts, chinos, loafers and bad man bangs."

"Bad man bangs do not reek."

"Fine, I may have seen them on security footage. It turns out that the were-bitch works at the museum and Compton has been seeing her there."

Bill Compton can only want one thing. Well, two. One, he wants Sookie, and two, he wants Eric's demise. Although, Sookie's probably more important to Compton, considering he was sent to procure her. And right now, Sookie is vulnerable to his lies again.

"Where is Compton now?" he demands.

"Well, acting on my excellent female intuition, I checked the guest list for the charity ball that Sookie will be attending in four days. I guess you don't need me to tell you who I found there."

"Pam, get me a tux."

"I thought you'd never ask."

"I'm not asking. It's a command."

* * *

To be quite honest, I can get used to all the pampering and the limos and facials and mani-pedis. Oh, and the shopping! What girl doesn't like shopping? The prices boggle my mind, but Tara insists that I can afford them. And it seems to be true, because I have a platinum credit card. It's almost like magic. We select dresses and shoes and jewellery and spend hours upon hours in the shop. Well, shops. Tara is a pro; she knows exactly what she wants and she's like a predator zoning in on her prey. We leave laden with shopping bags, which my driver quickly relieves us of once we're outside. Yes, I can get used to this. Meetings with the shareholders, on the other hand, are nightmares. I had to pluck the answers out of the heads of fellow board members for the meeting yesterday.

But this is a fantasy, isn't it? I don't feel like Sookie Stackhouse, socialite. I feel like Sookie Stackhouse, the barista. So, in essence, I'm living a lie, and sooner or later, I'm going to have to face reality. Then again, maybe I don't have to worry. Maybe this version of me will be gone once they've figured out a way to break the curse. Or maybe I'll find out that it's a cruel trick and I'll go back to my life as a barista, having had a taste of what lies on the other side of the rails, so to speak.

But, what if, and it is a big what if, I never find out the truth? What if I'm stuck being the socialite who feels like a barista? What then? I have no clue, no answer. I suppose I'd adapt, the way all living things do when they encounter new environments. It was either that or die. Well, I don't think it would be that serious in my case, but if I don't adapt, I'll probably end up having a nervous breakdown.

"Tara, are you _sure_ I need another gown?" I ask as my best friend searches through yet another rack. We're in the back rooms; most people wouldn't be able to come down here, but Tara just threw down the name 'Sookie Stackhouse' and the shop assistants happily led us here and left us to pick out what we wanted.

"Of course!" she says. "Sookie, you're a climbing fashion icon in New York's social scene, and even if you're not interested, you have an image to maintain. You don't want them to think you lost your verve after you 'broke up' with Eric, right?"

"What do you mean I broke up with Eric?" I demand. "Was I even _with_ him?" There have been several clues hinting at the fact that I _have_ been with him, but I refuse to believe it. I mean…it's Eric. He's hot, yeah, but he's not nice, and I don't like him…but maybe my other self did? "Never mind," I say. I don't really want to know. Not right now, anyway. There's too much going on, and if I get my real memories back, I think I'll know what happened anyway. There's no point in worry myself over what I can't change. That just makes me depressed. "You wanna go have lunch? My treat." Well, I have another agenda besides finding food.

Sam is surprised to see me, even if he is happy about it. "I've missed you, Sook," he says, and he means it. "God…these months have been…awkward. Listen, I'm sorry about what I said. I don't have any right to tell you who you should or shouldn't see, although I still don't really approve of Northman, even though you're not with him anymore." Okay, I'm convinced.

My other self was definitely crazy enough to date Eric, but she was also sane enough to break up with him. Well done, Sookie. I hear Tara whistling in her head. Wait…there's something else going on, or else she wouldn't be trying to block me. However, no matter how much I pester her, she refuses to tell me what's going on, saying that I don't need to worry about it and that it won't matter once I'm back to my regular self.

I would have persisted in questioning her, but I get distracted. A large man with bronzed skin and muscle definition to match Eric's has just walked into Merlotte's. His head has been shaved entirely bald, and he has curiously purple eyes. And well, he's…

Hot. He is very very hot. Now, since Bill's not really my boyfriend —according to Tara, I've never been with Bill Compton, and he kidnapped me _and_ killed someone in the process— I'm free to be with whomever I please. The man spots me and he comes right over.

"Ladies, I'm sorry to interrupt," he says, although his violet gaze is focused entirely on me. "Miss Stackhouse, I don't believe we have had the pleasure of meeting. I'm John Quinn."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Quinn," I say, shaking his huge hand. No, Sookie; drooling in public is not ladylike.

"Haven't I seen you before?" asks Tara suddenly.

"You're Tara Thornton, aren't you? The stylist?" asks Quinn.

"That'd be me," says Tara. "Now, how do you know that."

"I helped to organize your cousin's fashion show." Tara's cousin, Lafayette Reynolds, is a designer based in Massachusetts.

"Now I remember," says Tara. "You messed up the champagne order."

"It was an unfortunate administrative mistake, but I assure you it will never happen again."

"You're a caterer?" I say.

"Events' organizer," says Quinn. "I work for a branch of Extremely Elegant Events, Miss Stackhouse. Perhaps I might be able to be of service to you in the future."

"Maybe," I say. "I'm sure I have something coming up. Actually, Mr. Quinn, why don't you join us? There's a…um…party that I want to throw in two weeks. A theme party."

Tara glares at me, but I ignore her. It's none of her business who I see or don't see. She's obviously trying to push me towards Eric, but no matter how hard she pushes, it's not going to work. We're not compatible.

I end up agreeing to go out for drinks with John Quinn tonight. I mean, I have nothing on, and he seems like a nice guy. And I can't really read his mind for some reason. Well, I can pick up on emotions and random images, but otherwise, his thoughts are very snarly. Tara keeps on making excuses about why I can't go, but I brush them off. None of them are valid. I like Quinn, so why shouldn't I see him?

* * *

"Oh, that's brilliant," says Barisan when Tara tells him where Sookie is spending her evening. "Eric's going to take that _really_ well."

"I thought they weren't in a committed relationship," says Tara. Well, that's what Sookie told her.

"They're not, but he's completely taken by her," says the warlock.

"How would you know?"

"He's having rampant serial sex with a lot of women from dusk to dawn," says Barisan.

"And that's evidence for his _attachment_ to Sookie? What's wrong with you?"

"I've seen this all before, Tara. A man is in love with a woman. The man can't have said woman, so he tries to forget her by having lots of sex with other women. It doesn't work at all, by the way, and with each woman he fucks, he only gains a clearer realization of what he's missing. If you don't trust my judgement, ask Godric. There's no one who knows Eric better than he does. I bet you that he'll agree with my analysis."

"Oh yeah? How much are you willing to bet?"

"Five dollars."

"Add in a night of doing whatever the winner wants, and you're on."

Tara grins as she dials Godric's number, and then her face falls. Fucking warlock.

Barisan holds out his hand for the money, and she slaps the bill onto his palm. "So," she begins. "What do you want to do?"

"You," he replies as he smirks at her.

* * *

No, it isn't doing any good. He keeps on comparing the fangbangers to Sookie, and they always fall short. For one, they want him because he's a vampire and he's a powerful one at that, not because he's himself. And two, they don't have a single brain cell to share between them. He can't forget the way he and Sookie would laugh and bicker and tease one another. He can't forget her awful knock-knock joke that she made up by herself. He can't forget the scent of her skin, like rose petals warmed by the sun. He just can't forget her no matter how hard he tries.

"Eric, if you miss her that much, then why don't you go and see her?" asks Pam. "This brooding is getting old."

"I don't miss her. I'm pissed off that someone managed to get under my guard," he growls.

"Keep telling yourself that."

"What is that supposed to mean, Pamela?"

"Nothing, Your Highness. I am merely quoting Jack Sparrow."

He glares at her. It has no effect whatsoever. Either he's losing his touch, or she's developed immunity. Either way, it's not acceptable. What's even less acceptable is the fact that she's trying to interfere with his romantic—_personal_ life. Romance is for idiots.

And, to prove to her that he's not missing Sookie, he's going to go and see her to see how she's holding up.

No, that doesn't make much sense to him either. He tentatively tries to sense her through the presence of his blood in her system. She's happy, and a little nervous and shy, but excited. And also a little…horny? That puts him in a much worse mood than before. Sookie's with a man; a man she feels sexually attracted to.

His first instinct is to kill that man, whoever he might be. However, this is the twenty-first century, not the twelfth. Murder is not so easy to cover up these days. Still, he has his ways if he really tried, but Sookie probably wouldn't like it if he killed her…_boyfriend_. That word tastes bad.

* * *

"You wanna dance, babe?" asks Quinn. I'm giddily happy. For the first time since my head got messed up, I give a genuine laugh. Quinn's fun. I love how strong he is, and how warm he is. I'm wearing flats tonight, because I really don't like those high heels. I laugh more as he twirls me around on the dance floor. Coloured lights flash. I see rainbows in my vision. Even though I've only known Quinn for a day, I feel comfortable with him. He tries so hard to be a gentleman, and he seems to be genuinely interested in me. I'm interested in him too, and it's not just because he's hot.

"You know what?" I say as we leave the dance club. "We should do that sometime again."

"We should," says Quinn with a grin.

"In fact, there's a charity ball to raise funds of a children's hospital on Saturday. You wanna come?"

"I'd love to."

* * *

Tara is in my walk-in wardrobe again, rummaging through the formal dresses. I'm not looking forward to this function I have to go to. It's a fundraiser for a charity children's hospital, but Tara informs me that it's really about air-kissing the right people and saying things that will further cement or elevate my status. I'm sitting there waiting for my pedicure to dry and trying to find a way to get out of wearing those sky-high shoes she's already picked out for me. Actually, she's picked out about ten pairs.

"Try this," she says, thrusting something white at me. At first, I think it's going to look like a wedding gown —and she's playing enough wedding images in her mind, of me walking down the aisle with…ew, don't wanna go there— but then I realize that it only looks like half a wedding gown. Namely, it looks like my wedding gown is falling off me and revealing a very sparkly crystal embellished bra.

"Gorgeous!" says Tara. "But too demure." Before I can say anything —like ask her how on earth bra-peek-a-boo is considered gorgeous— she hands me another dress. This one is blue and patterned with a classic halter-neck that doesn't show much cleavage, but it drapes over my curves well. Plus, the colour is gorgeous. I have to admit that this is kind of fun. What girl doesn't like to look pretty? The material of the skirt swishes around my legs as I walk, and I feel almost like I'm flying.

"That's one option, but I think you need to look more…sexy," says Tara. She seems to be having even more fun than me as she rummages through my wardrobe. "Here."

This dress is blue and green, made out of layers upon layers of tye-died jersey. I think it looks like one of my old art projects. Tara says it's by a 'genius' called Roberto Cavalli. This is a halter-neck dress too, but unlike the other one, it shows off my entire back and clings to my curves.

The next dress she makes me try on is made out of layers of sheer silk that flap open like wings as I walk, and it's barely decent. "Eric would love it," says Tara, clapping her hands.

"Would Quinn like it?" I ask.

"Sookie, he wears_ purple harem pants_ to formal events. His sartorial opinion doesn't matter. Eric, on the other hand, is a loyal follower of Tom Ford and Hugo Boss. _He_ knows what's good and what's not."

"I don't know a Tom Ford or a Hugo Boss."

We finally settle on the layers of sheer silk. Actually, Tara settles on it.

"You look beautiful, Sookie," says Quinn as soon as he sets eyes on me.

"Thanks," I say shyly. "You're looking pretty good yourself." He's wearing a sharply cut grey pinstripe suit with a crisp white shirt and a purple and green paisley tie that brings out the colour of his eyes. I can hear Tara thinking, '_What. The. Fuck._' That Tara. She's such a style dictator.

The photographers shout and scream and snap a billion pictures as we get out of the limo. I can't see a thing because of all the lights and I'm having a hard time not tripping over my shoes. I can hear what they're thinking. '_God, she's a man-eater!' _one reporter is thinking. Man-eater? Me? In a flash, I see a picture of me talking with Bill and Gran's there looking on with approval. Then there's that infamous picture of me in a man's shirt with Eric putting his arm protectively around me. Then there's me with Barisan. Okay, perhaps I was wrong and my other self _was_ a man-eater. It's a little bit thrilling, actually; empowering. It's good to know that despite the fact that people think I'm crazy, I have the ability to attract some of the most gorgeous men in the city, even if I don't actually like them.

No matter. I'm with a guy I actually like tonight, and he likes me back. Apart from the fact that I have to air kiss the right people and smile until my cheeks hurt, what can be a better way to spend an evening?

I think I was too quick to be optimistic because as soon as Quinn and I step through the front door, I feel the contents of my stomach turn into stone.

Eric's here, along with Barisan. They make a beeline for me as soon as they see me.

"Sookie," says Eric. "We have a problem."

A simple 'good evening' would have been nice, but I guess that's asking for too much.


	16. If I Didn't Know Any Better

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. It all belongs to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball. Barisan, however, is mine.

**Chapter 16: If I Didn't Know Any Better**

"Sookie, we have to get out of here," says Eric.

"Why?" I ask. I move closer to Quinn. Something fishy is going on, and I don't think I like it. Of course, I don't know what I think these days, but you get my point. I'm not happy.

"The witches are going to attack us here, and unless you want all of these people to be collateral damage, then I suggest we select another battleground," says the vampire. He doesn't even acknowledge Quinn's presence. Quinn isn't happy that he's here either, but this isn't the time for testosterone fuelled conflicts. Eric is making a lot of sense. I don't want people to get killed because of me…well, Eric and me. He's the one that they're really trying to get to, although…

"What witches?" demands Quinn. "_Those_ witches? What have you done, Northman?"

"It's none of your business, so why don't you go and cough up a hairball, kitty?" hisses Eric. Whoa, pissing contest. And what's with the cat dig? Quinn doesn't look particularly feline to me. I mean, he's big and bulky, so if I had to compare him to an animal, I'd say…

…a gorilla? God, my creativity must have been taken away with my real memories. Gorillas are close relatives of humans anyway so it's no surprise that Quinn would look like one. Not _that_ much like one, of course, but you get my meaning, right? I mean, he's not covered in coarse black hairs and his jaw's not quite that big.

Quinn growls and takes one step towards the vampire. I notice his hands changing. The bones morph into something else and his skin ripples and moves. The hairs on them grow longer and thicker and darker, until I can make out a striped pattern, and long curved claws…

My eyes widen. I don't believe it. No wonder his mind's a little weird. John Quinn is not exactly human either. And he probably thinks that it's hygienic to lick his paws…and other parts. Now I get the cat digs.

"Target at nine o'clock forty degrees," murmurs Barisan, effectively distracting the angry vampire and…whatever Quinn is. Trig has never been my strong point so I don't know what he's on about.

"He's either scouting out the area or coming to claim his prize," Eric murmurs back. I finally realize what they're talking about. Bill Compton is making his way towards us, although he seems surprised by Eric's presence. And I'm surprised that he's not arrested yet. I mean, he was on _America's Most Wanted_.

"I think we're too late," whispers Barisan. I don't like the sound of that. What does he mean by 'too late'? He can't possibly mean that the witches are already here and getting ready to—I feel sick. Beside me, Quinn seems to have caught on to what's going on.

"He cannot possibly be idiotic enough to launch an attack with that many human witnesses, can he?" he hisses. A common enemy has made them put aside their differences. I'm grateful that we're not going to see an Eric-Quinn showdown —that wouldn't be pretty at all, and Eric is _very_ violent, if I remember correctly— but this new development is unlikely to be better.

"Oh yes, he can," says Barisan. "It's actually pure genius. Vampire creates chaos in NYC. I wonder who everyone will blame?"

"He's going to have to be a bit more of a genius if he wants to bring me down," growls Eric.

"Human massacre seems to be enough for me," says Barisan.

"Well, it's not gonna happen," I say. "Aren't you two supposed to be brilliant or something, or is that all an exaggeration?"

"Sookie, your lack of confidence wounds me," says Eric in a bored voice.

"Huh, as if you actually had the ability to care," I say. The vampire flexes his hands. There are a few audible cracks. He turns to Quinn.

"Kitty-cat, if anything happens to her, I will personally skin you and use your pelt as upholstery," he says.

* * *

They should really pick better nights for battles; like a night when Saks _doesn't_ have a flash sale, perhaps? Pam is not amused that she got pulled away in the middle of zoning in on the most amazing Gucci heels she'd ever seen. Now that skank in the too tight dress is probably going to get them, and she really isn't classy enough to wear them.

Everything seems to be just fine inside. Would Compton really dare to show his face in public after being featured on that television show? (She taped the segment just so she can laugh at the allegations of psychosis directed at the Civil War vampire.) After all, he's going to get arrested, by the AVL if not by human law enforcement. Still, maybe he's stupid enough to do that.

The witches, of course, are another matter entirely. They are under no threat from the human authorities. They have no idea when those bitches are going to strike or from where. There's just a general timeframe. Which is why Pam and all the rest of the vampires in Eric's employ are positioned at various points around the building where the ball is taking place. Pam fought tooth and nail to get the hotel room that looks directly down at the entrance of the venue and Chow, being next in the hierarchy, got the café next door. No one dared to fight Thalia when she announced she was taking the rooftop of the venue itself. Granted, it is not an enviable spot even if it is the best vantage point, but Thalia's always been like that. One of the lesser lackeys ended up in the dumpster at the back of the building. He's utterly miserable, but that's also an important place to guard because it's right beside the back door, which leads into the kitchen. The vampires are communicating via text. The were-bitches, being weres, are bound to have great hearing so radios would be absolutely no good.

Speaking of texts, she gets one from Eric. "Compton spotted," it reads. So Bill Compton really is dumb enough. It can't be long until the attack, or else he's going to get arrested before he can get what he came to get.

—

I clutch Quinn's arm, but I'm looking at Eric. I don't know why I feel the way I do, but somehow, I _know_ he's the one who's going to get us out of this. Well, with some help, of course, but he's the main player. The rest of them are just supporting actors, so to speak. Me…I'm probably a prop; something to be used against my…allies by their enemies. I mean, at least that's what it looks like at the moment. Those witches didn't replace my memories because I meant something to them. They replaced my memories to get at Eric.

As if Eric cared enough about me to be affected.

But he does seem to be affected, which is highly disturbing in itself.

Around us, no one is aware of the catastrophe that is about to strike. At first, I wonder if the vampire and the warlock are just having me on —they are still not really acknowledging Quinn's existence— but then I sense _them_. Not thoughts, really; their minds are snarly and full of basic primal instinct, just like Quinn's, but I can sense their emotions well enough. Malice oozes from their minds, like oil from an oil-spill, smothering and corrupting everything. There is madness in their malice, and a desire for revenge.

Bill is making his way towards us. He's smiling, but his smile looks fixed, and it definitely doesn't reach his eyes. He seems…displeased to see that I have company. Actually, that's an understatement. He's definitely not happy that I'm not alone.

"Good evening, Sookie," he says, forcing his voice to be jovial and polite. He's not really looking at me as he speaks, however. He's observing the three men with me. "Eric." He nods at the Viking.

"Bill," says Eric. "I'm surprised you dared to show your face here."

"It's a free world."

"And you're a wanted vampire."

"All I needed to do was swap my initials. Humans are stupid."

"Not as stupid as you think."

People are beginning to realize that one of America's Most Wanted is in their midst, and some of them are slowly taking out their phones, no doubt to call in the sighting. It's not as if Bill is making any effort to hide. I figure that now is the best time to try and get the truth out of him about the kidnapping, before he gets arrested or killed or something.

"Bill, I need to ask you something," I say. "Did you _really_ kidnap me?" As soon as the question leaves my mouth, I realize how stupid it is. It's not as if he's going to tell me that he did do it. No man with half a brain cell would admit to that, especially not if he wants me for something.

"Sookie, you should know better than to listen to Eric's lies," says Bill in his 'soothing' voice. He reminds me of that angler fish in _Finding Nemo_, luring Dory and Marlin into a false sense of calm with its seemingly zen light-thing and drawing them ever closer to its gigantic teeth. I shiver, and it's not because the A.C. has gone haywire.

The lights flash. The sprinklers go off, soaking everyone. Windows shatter and streams of unnatural blue smoke pour through them into the room. People start screaming; they think this is a terrorist attack, like Nine Eleven. In a sense, it _is_ a terrorist attack, but it's one of a very different nature. The smoke descends on the floor, and as it drops, shapes emerge. People emerge. Women, actually, although it's rather hard to tell. Their eyes are feral, and their grins are animalistic. "Well, well, if it isn't Eric Northman, trapped," says the one who emerged first.

"You're celebrating too soon, were-bitch," Eric says with an equally disturbing grin. His fangs are out. The attendees of the ball are in so much shock that most of them don't seem to know what to do. They get into action again as soon as the doors slam shut, effectively trapping all of us inside. The windows are too high up for us to reach, unless one can fly.

As far as I know, only one person present has that ability.

Without warning, the witches change form. Their clothes shred as their noses elongate and their muscles become more prominent. Quinn also changes and I scream as he turns into a huge Bengal Tiger with five inch claws emerging from between his toes. His muscles ripple beneath his fur as he pounces on the wolves. They scatter, but quickly regroup around him, nipping at his legs and then darting away as he swipes at them. He does get in a couple of good blows, but overall, numbers trump all. Enough ants can bring down an elephant, and the size difference between tigers and wolves isn't that large.

Eric is moving so quickly that I can't see what he's doing, until he has Bill by the neck. The Civil War veteran is no match for the Viking. However, there are still plenty of wolves that are _not_ busy with the tiger, and they're spreading out to pick out other prey. There are certainly plenty of choices. The humans are screaming and panicking and trampling all over one another in their desperation to get away. There's a huge pile-up against the doors; the doors that have been locked by a spell.

The Viking throws Bill against a wall. There's a crack and then the other vampire falls to the floor, seemingly lifeless, not that he was alive to begin with but you know what I mean. Eric's suit is torn and he looks as if he's in his element. Actually, I _know_ he's in his element. Vikings are renowned warriors. I know because I did some research. One has to know about the people she surrounds herself with, either willingly or unwillingly. He grasps a wolf by the scruff of its neck and its tail and breaks its spine over his knee. I hope there are no members of PETA present.

The head witch is still in her human form, and she's coming straight at me with some sort of ancient stone ceremonial dagger in her hand. I don't like the look of that thing at all, nor the look on her face either. However, she forgot one important factor.

In her eagerness to get to me, she doesn't even notice that Barisan is there, which is a severe mistake on her part. The warlock is fast. He grasps her by the top of her head. She screams as she is forced onto her knees. Barisan is murmuring…stuff under his breath. I'm not sure what happens next, because things go black for me for the second time in a week.

It's not funny.

* * *

The tiger still beleaguered by a pack of wolves and Compton has woken, although he's hiding behind the V-crazed wolves. And unfortunately, there are plenty of them. His child and the other vampires have arrived —through the windows— but it's difficult trying to fight a battle whilst stopping werewolves from massacring the hapless humans gathered here. Eric is the only thing between a group of wealthy pensioners and seven of those creatures. Some of them have changed back into their human forms. Their nakedness is enough to scare the mostly conservative blue bloods in the room. Then there's that whole thing about changing into rabid wolves. Most of these people probably have never seen a wolf outside of a nature documentary.

Compton might not be a match for the Viking one to one, but he's definitely capable of causing damage; a lot of damage if there are rich men involved. It's not as if any of them can fight off a single vampire. Luckily, Pam is more than capable of analyzing the situation and as soon as Compton shows any sign of moving, she's on top of him. He's no match for her either. She is, after all, Eric's child.

And she's using a silver spray to great effect. Compton screams as she douses him with the stuff, literally. His skin smokes and he's clawing at his eyes. That has got to hurt.

Well, there's nothing for it; at least, not until pest control gets here. He ducks a spell that one of the witches throw at him. It flies over his head and strikes the wall —and not a pensioner, thank the gods— before bursting into unnatural green flames that engulf the marble. Then he hears something that sounds a lot like the cracking of a skull —caused by an unopened bottle of champagne.

Sookie will never cease to astound him. If she thinks she can actually take on a were-witch with a champagne bottle, then there is a lot she needs to learn. Her spirit, however, is commendable. There's a ripping sound as one of the wolves try to bite her, and gets a mouthful of silk instead. Down comes the bottle again. "That's YSL, _bitch_!" snarls the telepath.

* * *

I can only vaguely remember what happened in the past couple of days, including trying to wear sneakers and a sweatshirt out of the house —cringe!— but it's quite clear what's going on. I'm in the middle of battle and I need to defend myself and my friends. There's fear all around me, and the police are late, as usual.

I'm not quite sure what the current situation is, whether we're winning or losing. One thing I am certain about is that werewolves and rich folks sans bodyguards generally don't go so well together. The only thing between them and getting massacred are eight vampires, one warlock —who seems a little grey around the gills— and…well, me.

Do I actually count as one of the defenders, or am I one of the defended? That question is answered for me as I'm knocked back by a powerful force. The air is driven from my lungs so I squeak in an undignified manner instead of scream. I can feel the heat of the wolf's breath and smell its rancidity too. I block my neck with my arms. What else can I do?

The wolf is pulled off me, and even though I actually can't see a damn thing —I think ladies are allowed to swear when they're being attacked by werewolves; Miss Manners never actually covered this sort of situation— I know it's Eric. Who else is going to come to my rescue like that?

Well, Tara would, but I don't think Tara is capable of lifting a hundred and fifty pound wolf with one hand and flinging it, discus style, across a ballroom.

Eric hauls me to my feet and shoves me towards the back of the ballroom, in the direction of the kitchens. "Get out of here now," he says. I don't need to be asked twice, although I hesitate because I don't want to leave him there to deal with this all by himself. I don't know what help I'll be…but I _can_ help, can't I?

Although, considering the slavering snarling werewolves, probably not.

"What about you?" I demand. Just because I know I won't be much help if I stay doesn't mean that I won't question his decision to make me leave early.

"I'll be fine."

"That's what you said last time!"

I hear minds; a lot of minds. Finally, the police are here. They break down the doors, and I sense their shock as they take in what's happening. It's not every day that a boring upper class party gets crashed by a pack of wolves and a tiger. '_Shit, we should have brought bigger guns_,' went through more than just one policeman's head.

There's no hiding it anymore. The werewolves will have to come out of the…doghouse now. They have no choice. I'm pretty sure that _these _wolves won't be very popular, not that they were popular to begin with. Considering what an uproar there was when the vampires came out of the coffin, I can't imagine what the religious fanatics will do now that there are werewolves as well. I hope they never find out about faeries. They'll probably call us the Spawn of Satan or something. Wait, those are vampires. We have to be something else.

* * *

There are two possible scenarios. One, the police capture the were-witches. Two, the witches do something to the police and _he_ takes the blame for it. Number two is a lot less pleasant and much more likely. Even with Hallow Stonebrook down, the rest of them are quite capable of massacring every human in this room. That is, if the vampires don't put a stop to it. Eric glances at his forces. Pam —and her vintage Chanel suit— is covered in wolf blood. So is Chow, who somehow managed to hide his sword before the police arrived. Thalia has a chunk of wolf in her mouth. Not the prettiest sight and probably not the image that one would want on a poster promoting vampire rights. She spits out the meat.

"Everyone get down on the ground! Now!" shouts the man in charge. Eric can smell his fear. He's terrified of what's going on because he doesn't understand any of it. It would be best to just go along with it for now. He's unlikely to get arrested because there are several witnesses who saw the wolves attacking the humans. How the weres are going to clean this up, he has no idea. This is not exactly a great first impression for the humans. The vampires did it much better.

The wolves snarl and reform their much depleted ranks. They are not going to go down without a fight. Some of the witches remain in human form. They can do a lot of damage with spells. How are they going to clean this up? It's not exactly possible to wipe the memories of all the humans present. Not even the most powerful warlocks can do that. Well, maybe they can, if there are enough of them, but then what about the security cameras?

"Down, I said!" shouts the policeman. Eric sees green light gathering around the witches. Whatever it is, they're going to try and break out of this building.

Blue fumes escape into the room through the broken windows. His first instinct is to stop inhaling. However, whilst that might be possible for vampires, it is not something that humans can do, or witches, for that matter. Of course, witches have magic on their side, but in this case, that doesn't seem to matter. Within seconds, every organism in the room that respires aerobically has fallen to the ground, unconscious. Yes, even the eight hundred year old warlock. Eric catches Sookie before she can hit the floor.

There's only one possibility. He's seen this blue smoke once before. It's a faerie device, and the last faerie he saw using it was Finn.

Would it really kill him to show himself just _once_?

In his arms, Sookie is limp. She looks so innocent here, even though there's a streak of blood on her cheek—not hers, thank goodness. As much as he would like to admire her, there isn't time. They need to get out of here and destroy the security footage. The blue smoke is a mind altering substance, and the faerie using it can manipulate it to do whatever he or she wants it to. It's possible that some of the afflicted humans will believe that there was a terrorist attack by Al Qaeda instead of by witches. "Chow, you deal with the security cameras," says Eric as he picks himself up off the floor. "Pam, you, Maxwell, Thalia and Indira take the witches and Compton to the basement and chain them in silver. Make sure you remove any ancient artefacts."

The unconscious weres have reverted back to their human forms, including the tiger. Compton is just getting to his feet shakily. Pam sprays him in the face again and he goes down on his knees once more. "Does that include the tiger too?" she asks.

Eric considers this. He would like nothing more than to dump John Quinn, naked as he is, in Alaska. However, it doesn't seem fair, and he is nothing if not a fair and just and _rational_ ruler. He has no reason to hate the were that much apart from the usual antagonism that vampires have against almost all weres. Well, Quinn is more obnoxious than most, probably because he's feline, which are notorious for their bad attitudes, but the truth is, the Viking really shouldn't feel jealous of him just because he took Sookie dancing. Sookie wasn't in her right mind then. Besides, the Viking has no exclusive claim over her, apart from being her appointed guardian.

What does 'guardian' imply anyway? Did Finn want him to be her bodyguard and friend…or something more?

He pushes those thought to the back of his mind. He needs to get everyone out of here before more police arrive. He hoists the unconscious Barisan onto his back and secures him with belts taken from unconscious humans. Then he picks up Sookie after wrapping his —ruined— tuxedo jacket around her. Her dress isn't going to keep her very warm and it's cold in the sky.

* * *

When I wake up, I'm in my own bed, dressed only in my underwear. My poor ruined dress is draped over the back of a chair. What happened? The last thing I remember is the walls cracking and Eric throwing himself over me to protect me.

How did I get home? And who took off my clothes?

I hear voices coming through my partially closed door from the kitchen, as well as the ringing of spoons hitting the sides of mugs. The microwave beeps. I swing my legs over the side of the bed. They are a little wobbly but they can support me. I throw on a robe and then pad down the hallway, casting out my thoughts as I do. There are two voids —Eric and Pam— and one human in the form of Tara. There's another man's voice, but I can't sense his mind, so it must be Barisan. He's the only warlock around these parts.

"Hello, Sookie," the warlock greets me as I enter the kitchen. He's holding a pink Hello Kitty mug in one hand and a teaspoon in the other. "Do you have anything else other than low fat hot chocolate?"

"What he means is that he's looking for something alcoholic," says Eric. He sets down his warmed bottle of blended blood and starts to approach me.

"Like this?" says Tara as she brandishes a half-full bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream. I see images in her mind. Eric flew through my window with both me and Barisan and surprised her whilst she was watching _Love Actually_ on my TV. She's the one who undressed me and put me to bed.

"_Exactly_ like that," says Barisan. "Tara, you are a miracle worker."

"Seriously, You drink alcohol the way people eat bread," says Tara. "And you already drank the gin."

"I look much better, don't I?" asks Barisan as he opens the bottle.

"Yes, which is what worries me. There should be a medical term for your condition."

"How are you feeling?" Eric asks me. He is genuinely concerned about my well-being. I can see it in his eyes. He reached up to touch my forehead to see whether I have a temperature or not. It's very sweet, actually. Although if I say anything about it, I don't think he'll ever talk to me again.

"I'm not really sure," I admit. "Hungry, perhaps."

Tara holds out a bag of Ho Hos at me. "You need some sugar," she says.

I don't disagree with her. The chocolate cake and cream filling tastes divine, and I down half the bag before I feel satisfied. I need to detox tomorrow, but that can wait.

"So, what happened?" I ask. "I only remember the building collapsing. Is everyone all right?"

"Last I heard, they were claiming a terrorist attack by religions extremists," says Barisan.

"The werewolves are religious extremists?" I ask.

"No, but they don't remember werewolves," says Eric. "Finn came and used some mind-warping smoke."

"What about the werewolves?" I ask. "What happened to them?"

"We have them in custody," says Pam. She won't say anymore, and I suspect I don't want to know anymore. Sometimes, it's so easy to forget that my friends are vampires, and that their values are very different from mine. I'm sure Eric and Pam have no qualms about using violence against those who have offended them. Actually, they have a lot in common with many humans in that aspect. Pam will probably kill me if I ever tell her that she has anything in common with humans, unless said human is Coco Chanel or Abby —as in Dear Abby.

"And Bill? I think I saw him there."

"He's in custody too," says Eric. Okay then. I won't ask about what's going to happen to him, although I kinda feel bad for him even though he's a complete jerkass and deserves to be punished. But who am I to judge? I am not God.

"What about the tiger?"

Looks are exchanged, and I detect a distinct air of discomfort amongst the company.

"Sookie, what do you remember about the past few days?" Tara asks.

"I remember trying to wear sneakers and a sweatshirt out of the house," I say. Pam and I both wince together.

"_Just_ sweatshirt and sneakers?" asks Eric with a grin. I throw a Ho Ho at him.

"You're insufferable!" I say.

"There were denim cut-offs involved, but those are acceptable under certain circumstances," says Tara.

"Denim cut-offs are not acceptable at all!" insists Pam. "And I don't care that Alexa Chung can work them. Coco would never approve."

"Ladies, can we please get back on topic?" asks Barisan. "You can argue about the merits of denim shorts later. Personally, I rather like them on girls."

"Do you remember thinking that you worked at Merlotte's?" asks Tara. "And that you were Bill Compton's?"

"Ew! Did I develop Stockholm Syndrome or something?" I can't ever imagine having good feelings about Bill Compton ever again after what he did to poor Ivan and to me.

"That's what I thought," says Tara. '_And she thought she hated Eric too, poor guy_,' she added in her mind. I feel really bad as I imagine all the things I might have done or said.

"It was entertaining to an extent," Pam assures me. "And everyone knew you weren't in your right mind."

Oh, great. Well, I suppose that's an excuse for behaving badly.

"Did I say anything that's…um…you know…"

"Nothing worth mentioning, I assure you," says Eric. Pam raises an eyebrow and says nothing else about my behaviour after that.

"The thing is, Sookie, you went to Merlotte's," says Tara, "and you met this guy, John Quinn. You two kind of started flirting—" I bury my face in my hands. "—and the next thing I know, he asked you out and you said yes."

"What did we do?" I mumble into my hands. A million scenarios run through my head. None of them are good. I feel so embarrassed. I mean, I don't even remember who the guy is, apart from the fact that he shifts into a Bengal Tiger.

"You purportedly went out for a few drinks and then ended up in a dance club," says Tara. "As for the truth…well…I can't really say." That's really reassuring. "But he kept on calling you 'babe'. I wanted to be sick."

I want to be sick too. What possessed me to go out with a guy who calls me 'babe' the day we meet? That just sleazy and I have more self-respect than that. Still, maybe it's just a habit of his, like it's Eric's habit to say inappropriate things or Barisan's habit to drink continuously. I don't have a problem with either of those guys. Maybe this John Quinn is a really nice guy who needs to be reminded that I'm not a baby of any kind.

But we're supposedly a couple. Now _that's _a problem.

"What do I do now?" I ask.

"End it," says Eric.

"I can't just dump him like that. I gotta give him a reason."

"Tell him the truth and say that you don't remember him," says Barisan.

"That's kinda mean."

"You have to learn to be mean in life sometimes," says Pam. She's painting her nails —with my new bottle of Chanel's Pearl Drop which I haven't even tried— and not looking up from her task. "Usually, that's most of the time."

I'm in a dilemma here. Everyone wants me to dump this John Quinn, and I myself don't have any feelings for this guy, but I just feel guilty about treating anyone like this. And what if he really is right for me? I mean, I might have some strange feelings for Eric, but we're most definitely not a couple. What if this is my chance for happiness and I miss it because I refuse to even get to know the guy first before I dump him?

"Maybe I should meet him first before I decide."

I hate the fleeting look of disappointment on Eric's face.

* * *

Tara's left. Barisan's left. Pam's left. It's just Eric and me. There are things we need to talk about; things that we've pretty much been avoiding. Like the question of what we are, or whether there is even an 'us'. It's not a conversation I'm looking forward to. I knew, from the beginning, that sleeping with him would complicate things, and I really don't want to lose him as a friend.

How do I begin? Perhaps I should have done more homework, but there's no time for that. I take a deep breath. "Eric, I…"

"Sookie, you don't need to say anything," he says. "I know what you're feeling, even if I do not particularly understand it. I have no claim on you."

Well, what else is there to do except hug him? His strong arms wrap around me. Really, I should stop doing this, but I like it so much. He's solid, he's protective, he's fierce, he's hot…and my mind wanders down to the gutter. I inhale his scent. He's washed off most of the blood from the fight, and he smells of _my_ lavender shower gel and shampoo.

"Thank you," I whisper.

"Tell him to make you happy or else he'll have me to deal with," he says. His voice rumbles in a comforting way in his chest. It shouldn't be comforting; he's making a threat.

"Eric, I'm just getting to know the guy before I decide whether I dump or date him," I say. "It's not like I'm going to marry him."


	17. Tell Me Now

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. It belongs to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball. Barisan, however, is mine. **

**A/N: **A lot of people have been frustrated by Eric's behaviour. For me, what is important about writing Eric is remembering that he's not a modern man. He comes from a completely alien world where the notion of exclusivity and romance didn't exist. Strong attachment, for him, is irrational and he doesn't want to be irrational. He's trying to prove to himself that he doesn't have these feelings for Sookie, which, of course, doesn't work because he does have feelings. It's very difficult for him to come to terms with them, so I must ask you to be patient with him.

**Chapter 17: Tell Me Now**

I'm tired, but I can't sleep. I keep on reliving that moment when Eric told me that I was free to see this John Quinn character. I'm relieved that he's not angry, but I'm also a little disappointed; disappointed that he didn't try to stop me. That he didn't fight for me. I roll over again. My sheets are getting twisted. It's five in the morning and I'm not anywhere near falling asleep. I feel like I'm missing something.

I'm missing a big insufferable Viking vampire who probably doesn't miss me half as much as I miss him.

And when I finally do fall asleep after the sun rises, my dreams are filled with Eric. We're just sitting and talking. I'm leaning against him, and his back is to a tree. We're alone in a glade. Stars peek through the branches of the trees. I don't want it to end. It's perfect. I feel so safe with him, and isn't that what every person is looking for? A safe refuge? I tilt my head upwards to kiss him. He meets me halfway and begins to run his hands over my body. I finally realize that I'm naked. The mossy ground is soft beneath my skin. I want him. I need him. I—

My phone rings. I grope blindly for it. "Hello?" I say.

"Babe! Thank God you're all right!"

The first thing I consider is hanging up and shouting for help. Obviously, there's some delusional stalker who thinks he's in love with me and that I'm in love with him. Then I remember to check caller ID. It says 'Quinn'. John Quinn.

"Hi," I say, trying to sound more enthusiastic than I am. Meanwhile, I'm a little annoyed that my Eric dream got cut off. I just want to go back to sleep and keep on dreaming it. "Yes, I'm fine, thanks. And yourself? You were…um..." He was very naked when I last saw him.

"I'm fine, no thanks to those fangers. They left me outside a nude bar." That was probably Pam's idea.

"At least you weren't arrested for indecent exposure," I say. He laughs.

"I guess that's one good thing. Listen, babe, I really want to see you, but I'm working tonight."

"Well, I guess some other time, then," I say. "I think I need a little rest after last night." We end the call soon after that and I try to resume that dream I was having of Eric and me sitting alone in a peaceful little glade. However, it's gone, and no matter how I try, I can't get it back. My phone rings again. It's Sal, my personal assistant.

"Sookie, I know you just survived a terrorist attack, but there's something you really need to go to, unless you've got two broken legs or something," she says in one breath. It's impressive.

I sigh. "My legs are fine, Sal," I say. "What do I need to go to?"

* * *

It's a dinner party for the Floods. Colonel and Mrs. Flood are celebrating their forty sixth wedding anniversary, and apparently, Gran knew them quite well. They don't come to the meetings, but they're also important shareholders of Hale Industries. I vaguely remember meeting them once when I was still in school.

The party is being held in a five star hotel. Servers in perfectly pressed shirts are floating about the room, offering tiny little canapés and flutes of champagne to guests. The funny thing is that their bowties have a hideous purple and green paisley print instead of the usual black. Purple like…

I almost spill my glass of champagne over my coral one shouldered Michael Kors gown. My jaw drops. Standing in one corner and directing the servers is John Quinn.

In _purple harem pants and no shirt_. I'm pretty sure this is not a costume party, and no matter how nice his body is, people should _always _wear shirts to formal events. And they're _harem_ pants, for God's sake! I can't be with someone who thinks harem pants are appropriate outside of costume parties! I know it's a little shallow, but that's just an indication that we have nothing in common. Eric, despite his love for flip flops and sweatpants —or general nakedness— understands the value of a well-cut suit. Plus he's never turned up shirtless to a formal event. I try to get away before he sees me, but it's too late.

"Babe!" he says delightedly. I redden. People are staring. In two strides, he's in front of me. I strain my cheek muscles. Maybe I'm not being fair. Maybe he's a really nice guy who can hold really interesting conversations.

Who am I kidding. _Purple harem pants_.

"Hi, Quinn," I say.

"Fancy seeing you here," he says. "And you look stunning, if I may say so."

"You look pretty spectacular yourself," I say. It's true. His outfit is outrageous, even if his muscle definition is pretty good.

"This is my work uniform," he says. "I designed this for my branch of the company." Seriously, he wears harem pants _to work_?

'Stop judging people based on their clothes, Sook,' I scold myself. 'You're not a dictator of style.'

"The black bowties were too generic, so I thought purple and green would be a nice change," Quinn continues. I don't really know what to say to that. I know what _Tara _would say but I don't have the guts to behave like Tara. However, I'm saved from having to respond by Arlene of all people.

"Sookie Stackhouse, you look _gorgeous_," she says as she air-kisses me on both cheeks. I think she's finally forgiven me for dating a vampire. "I haven't talked to you in so long. I've missed you." Well, I wonder whose fault that was?

Snatching the opportunity when I see it, I introduce Arlene to Quinn. We talk for a few minutes about the weather and soon Arlene excuses herself to go and talk to someone else.

"So…" says Quinn. "Saturday night all right for you?" It takes me a while to register that he's asking me out on a date. I'm too busy trying to comprehend the monstrosity that is the purple harem pants.

"Uh…yeah," I say. He misconstrues my morbid fascination with his pants for fascination with something else. Oops. But what can I do? I can't tell him that his pants are awful. At least, not right now.

"Great!" he says, beaming broadly at me. "Dress nicely, because we're going somewhere special."

Coming from a guy who wears _purple harem pants_, that's kinda rich.

Now I feel awful for thinking that. I am dwelling on those pants way too much.

* * *

"Tara, honestly, I don't think this is working," I say into the phone later that night as I get ready for bed. Tara, for once, isn't spending the night with Barisan. She thinks she's coming down with the flu so she's staying home and watching rom-coms. And giving me advice, of course. "I mean, I really want to give the guy a fair go but I can't concentrate on what he's saying because I'm too busy looking at his pants!"

"Were you looking at his pants or imagining what's underneath them?"

"Oh please, Tara. I couldn't get past the pants. Do you think I'm shallow?"

"Well, you know what I think," says Tara. "I think you should just tell him it's not working and then go back to a relationship that does work."

"If you're talking about Eric, then I'm sorry, but there's no relationship there. We're friends who had sex with each other. Anyway, I think I kinda agreed to go out with Quinn on Saturday night, and he said to dress nicely. I'm not sure what that means, coming from someone who…you know."

"I'd say wear jeans and a nice top, and combat boots so you can run or kick someone if you really need to," says Tara. "Or maybe those Louboutins. You know, the ones with the spikes. They're very useful. Pam told me about what you did to Compton with them. All I have to say is 'ouch!'"

"Hey, he deserved it. It's not like I've permanently damaged him."

"Um…Sook? I can't talk anymore coz I think I need to go puke again."

"You should see a doctor."

"The doctor's just gonna tell me to get some bed rest and drink lots of water, or they're going to feed me antibiotics. And you know what I think about antibiotics in non-life-threatening situations." Tara is all for building up her own immune system and thinks that antibiotics is the reason for all those strange viruses that are evolving these days.

Well, I guess Saturday's the defining moment. I think I'll find something that I can run in.

* * *

Saturday comes. I _was_ going to wear jeans, but then there's a skirt that I've been dying to take for a spin. It's by Missoni and epitomizes the meaning of 'colour-blocking', with patches of shocking pink and orange. I know, I know; a guy who wears purple harem pants probably won't know how to admire it, but neither does a guy who wears Hugo Boss suits. If Eric were here, he'd be thinking up ways to get the skirt off me. I probably wouldn't mind, even though he would ultimately be unsuccessful.

But I'm not going on a date with Eric. I'm going on a date with Quinn. I have to think about Quinn. The were-tiger, not the hot as hell Viking vampire prince who is protective and sweet at times and…

Focus on Quinn, Sook! Not Eric. Quinn. Don't think about Eric; at least, not until the date's over. God, I miss him. Eric, I mean; not Quinn. And there I go again, thinking about Eric. And he was here last night. I guess I'd just much rather go on a date with —no, it's not fair on Quinn. I don't even know the guy yet and I'm already not giving him a chance.

I pair the skirt with a simple black tee by Alexander Wang and grey canvas oxford shoes with no laces by Reed Krakoff. They have low stacked block heels so they're both comfortable to walk in and still has that leg elongating effect that sky-scraper heels give you. Well, not to the same extent, of course, but your foot is bent enough to show the muscle definition in your leg.

I throw on a long beige Ralph Lauren cashmere cable knit shawl-cardigan and add a black cuff by Kenneth Jay Lane with turquoise and Swarovski crystals. An apricot leather Chloé Paraty shoulder bag finishes off my look. I leave my hair loose and apply minimal make-up. The focal point of my outfit is my skirt. Everything else is merely supposed to complement it.

The doorman announces that Quinn is here ten minutes after he's supposed to arrive. I tell the man to send him right up. "I'm so sorry, babe," he says as soon as he steps out of my elevator. I suppress a wince at the use of the word 'babe'. We have to breach this at some point. Well, maybe we don't if I decide, after tonight, that I don't want to be with him anymore. "The traffic was hell." Eric was always on time whenever he decided to meet with me, whether it's for an appointment or for a date. Well, I've only been on one date with him and it's not even a real date, but whatever. He was still punctual, and he wasn't wearing a monstrous purple and green paisley tie. What else is this guy going to come up with next? Shirts with purple and green pom-poms for buttons?

What's worse is that Quinn's paired his tie with an olive green silk shirt and a brown suit. Maybe he is a nice guy underneath all of that, but I just can't get past his get-up. To be honest, I prefer sweatpants and flip flops. It's one thing to put no effort into your dressing and another thing entirely to put in a lot of effort and end up looking like a disaster.

"You look great, by the way," he says. "Nice sweater." It's a cardigan.

"Thanks," I say. "So, where are we going?"

"It's a surprise," he says as he offers me his arm. I hesitantly take it. My hand brushes over his for a split second, and I detect something that I don't quite like.

* * *

"Stop! I'll cut you a deal!" screams Compton. Pam stops spraying him with silver.

"You're in no position to bargain," she says as she pulls over a chair and sits down before the chained vampire. "But I'm in a mood to be entertained by whatever ridiculousness you come up with."

"I'm working on a project for Sophie-Ann. A database of all vampires in the world, and if you let me go, I'll get you and your prince a copy. The premium copy that not even the queen has."

"Are you fucking dumb or something? Wait, don't answer that." She gets up and zooms up the stairs. Eric needs to know about this. The repercussions of such a database could mean the survival of extinction of the vampire race as a whole. Vampires have many enemies in the world, and having such a list would make it easy for their enemies to hunt all of them down. Right now, it's easy enough to blend in. What if the human authorities use this to blacklist all vampires? It's not an impossibility.

* * *

"I suppose such a database might come in useful," says Eric as he sips from a bottle of blended blood. Pam doesn't know why he's reverted back to that bottled shit. Just because Sookie is back to normal—wait, maybe _that's_ the reason. Her maker still has hopes —subconscious hopes— that he'll one day get her. This is frustrating. If he wants her, then why can't he just fucking say it? It would make things so much easier. Sookie likes him well enough; well, at least that's what Pam thinks.

"So are we going to cut the deal?" she asks.

"Let him brew in the basement for a little longer," says Eric. "I want him to beg me, and then maybe I'll consider granting him mercy. Oh, you could place a dish of blood just out of reach. Do you know how much it hurts to see what you want most and not be able to have it?" He looks at the bottle of blood. "This stuff tastes like shit."

"No kidding," says Pam. "You want me to get you something fresh?"

"No. I have no appetite."

"You're still moping about Sookie, aren't you?"

"I'm not moping."

"You have feelings for her."

"Why are you repeating what Godric keeps on telling me? I can't go one night without him telling me to confront and admit to my non-existent feelings."

"They're not non-existent, Eric. You're deluding yourself. It's not weak to have feelings, but it is weak if you're scared of them."

"Are you trying to get your allowance cut?"

"Do what you wish. You know I'm right."

* * *

Quinn takes me to a restaurant. The exact same one that Eric took me to, in fact. However, we don't get one of the back rooms this time. I ignore the paparazzi as they stand on the opposite side of the road —the closest they can get— and try to take pictures of us. I'm used to it. Privacy is a luxury. I don't hate them for what they do, even if I can get annoyed sometimes; they're just trying to make a living. I order the same thing as I did last time; duck. Quinn orders steak tartare.

We don't talk much. The thing is, I don't really know what to talk about with him. It's not as if I can say, 'So, what's it like being a were-tiger?' What did Eric and I talk about? He usually makes some dirty comment, and we'd take off from there and the conversation would evolve into a philosophical discussion. How does that happen anyway? I have no idea.

"So…Sookie, I hear you have quite an exciting life," says Quinn as he spoons a forkful of raw meat and egg into his mouth.

"Not really, unless you like talking about the share market," I say. "Well, I do get kidnapped from time to time, but that's about it." I give a little humourless laugh. I don't tell him about my curse—no, my ability. That's what Eric calls it. I smile a little at the thought. He's been trying to encourage me about developing my telepathic powers. Wait, there's Eric again. I shouldn't be thinking about him when I'm on a date with Quinn. "So…does it hurt when you…change?"

He pauses with a forkful of meat halfway to his mouth. "I prefer not to talk about it," he says. "It's not something that I like to think about."

"So you don't like being a were?"

"It has its ups and downs, like everything. It gets irritating when you turn every full moon whether you like it or not."

"At least it's not an everyday occurrence," I say. I'm thinking about vampires again and how irritating it must be to have to find shelter each night before the sun rises. I've never heard a vampire complain about it before. Then again, I only know three weres, and I haven't really spoken much to the other two. "And at least you're a tiger and not a guinea pig."

"That would really suck," Quinn agrees. "How did you get involved with the vampires anyway? I wouldn't have expected a nice girl like you to mess with those bloodsuckers."

"With all due respect, there's nothing vampires can do that humans aren't capable of," I say.

"They're killers, Babe. They have to kill to feed."

"And I suppose that's a veggie burger you just ate. And vampires don't necessarily kill to feed. That's what donors are for."

"Donors? Is that what you call them? You know, we regular folks call them by a different name."

"I don't like that name and its implications."

"They're true."

"It's a stereotype, and like all stereotypes, it can be inaccurate. Has it ever occurred to you that some people want to be with vampires out of real feelings? They can see beyond the fangs and the sex to the person who lies beneath."

"Fangers have no souls. They're dead, and it's unnatural to want to be with one."

"Why should something as trivial as not breathing stand in the way of true love? I was brought up to believe that real genuine love transcends death."

"Living people should be with living people. The dead should be buried. Not forgotten, but buried beneath the ground. They most definitely shouldn't be running around biting people. It's not natural."

"And I suppose it's natural to run around naked on all fours during the full moon?"

"Babe, why are we even discussing this? We're on a date, not a debate panel about fangers' rights to exist."

I grab my bag. "I'm sorry. I need to go to the bathroom," I say.

* * *

I refresh my lipstick and dab on some concealer where my make-up has come off. As I apply gloss to my lips, I can't help but think of this date and compare it to the one other successful date that I've had. What set that one apart from this one, apart from the fact that the other one was for show? Even then, it wasn't so awkward. What made it different?

Eric and I were both pretty much strangers then, except he was a stranger who felt comfortable enough to diss my wardrobe choices. Oh, and he answered all my questions.

It suddenly comes to me. What was I thinking when I said I'd go out with Quinn? Throughout the entire day, I've been thinking about one man, and it's not the one who's waiting for me outside. I can't give Quinn a fair chance. I want to, but I can't. I'll always compare him to Eric and he'll always fall short. Eric and I have been through so much together that…well, I can't say we know each other inside out, but I think we get each other. He'll always be my first proper kiss and the one who I gave myself to. I can never take that back, nor do I want to. It's not fair to lead Quinn on like that when I have no intention of staying with him.

I rush out of the bathroom, my cheeks flushed from my epiphany. I have to tell Quinn and I have to tell him now before he becomes mired too deeply in his feelings for me.

"There you are, Babe," says Quinn. "I thought you might have fainted in there."

"No, I'm fine," I say.

"Really? You seem…different."

"Listen, Quinn. We need to talk about us."

"I'm listening."

"There is no us."

"What?"

"I'm sorry…how do I put this in a better way…all right. When you met me, I wasn't myself. I was under the influence of a spell."

"Those witches…" whispers Quinn.

"Yes, those witches. And anyway, I was under the impression that I was barmaid, which I'm not, and I also thought I hated Eric, which I don't. So the girl you fell for never really existed. I'm really sorry, Quinn. I tried to give us a go, but I realize that it's not going to work, and I don't want to lead you on."

"This is about Northman, isn't it?" His voice is barely a whisper. "His scent is all over you."

"I'm not going to lie," I say. "Eric does have something to do with it, but regardless, we're just not compatible. I mean, those pants that you wore to the Floods' dinner party? Fashion means something to me."

"If it's my pants that you don't like, Babe, I can always not wear them."

"The pants are only part of the problem, and you didn't wear them. They wore you."

"Ouch."

"I'm sorry. I really am. I'm sure somewhere out there is a lucky girl who's just right for you, but I'm not that girl, and I don't want to waste any more of your time."

"You do know that Northman and his kind are incapable of love, don't you, Babe? He just wants to use you and when you cease to be of any use to him, he'll dump you like last night's corn cob. You'll just end up getting hurt."

At first, I was very sorry that I was going to have to hurt him like this, but after hearing that, I'm not certain I'm that sorry anymore.

"With all due respect, Mr. Quinn, that's none of your business," I say. "You don't know anything about Eric and you don't know anything about me, so you're not in a position to say anything."

I'm glad I wore shoes that are good for walking, because I don't want him to chase me down. I pay for my own dinner and then hail a cab. I don't know where to go, so I tell the driver to take me to Fangtasia.

* * *

They all seem surprised to see me. The donors are wondering what I'm doing here because they think that I've broken up with Eric. He's certainly been behaving like…a…um…bachelor. I quickly shut out those thoughts. I knew that he wasn't exclusive with me, but it still hurts to know who he's been with ever since my mind got messed up. And there are a lot of them present. I have no doubt that there are a lot more who aren't here tonight.

"Eric's in the back," says Pam. "And this time, it's really safe to see him. I mean it. He's being a brooding bore." That doesn't sound like Eric. I start to worry about him. I know he wasn't happy when I told him I wanted to see Quinn, but surely it's not that bad, is it? I mean, we didn't agree to a committed relationship so shouldn't he be consoling himself with donors like he did when I wasn't myself?

"Is he all right?" I ask.

"I don't think so," says Pam, "but opinions differ."

Well, since I'm not going to get any clear answers out of her, I'm just going to have to find out by myself. Eric's door is slightly ajar. I knock on it.

"I told you I have no appetite," he says. He must really not be okay if he doesn't know it's me.

"I guess it's a good thing I didn't come to feed you then, Mr. Northman," I say as I push open the door and walk in.

"Sookie?" he says.

"It's me," I say awkwardly. He immediately sits up straighter, but he tones down the enthusiasm almost immediately. Too bad. It was kinda cute. "You're not hallucinating."

"You reek of tiger."

"And you're still insufferable."

"I guess very little has changed, then." He leans back in his chair. "Why aren't you with the were anyway?"

"I…figured out something and…I think we need to talk."

"That sounds ominous, and to think that we had another talk last night."

"Please don't make this any more difficult than it already is, Eric. I'm trying to tell you something." I sit down on one of the plastic chairs in front of his desk. I am not touching that sofa; not after what I've seen him do on it. "I have…feelings."

He remains silent, and he doesn't blink as he stares at me, as if telling me to get on with it. I don't know. I can't read his mind or his expression. "Oh God, Eric," I say. "It's stupid, but I think I'm in love with you." I bury my face in my hands. "I mean, I know you're far too rational and detached to fall in love with anyone and I've had too much to drink and I don't even really know what I'm thinking but I just felt I needed to tell you. Don't worry. I'll get over it."

"Don't," he says quietly.

"What?"

"Don't get over it."

"What's the point of harbouring an unrequited love, Eric? I'm not going down that path to heartbreak."

"What if it's not unrequited?"

"I'm sorry, is this a dream or is this the real you? Or is it your turn to get your personality replaced. You don't fall in love. You're Eric Northman. In a thousand years, you've never fallen in love."

"There's always a first for everything and I…I don't know what I'm feeling, but…Sookie…I am feeling something."

I can't help but stare at him; that perfectly symmetrical face, those blue blue eyes, the very kissable mouth. Is this him trying to tell me that…

…he doesn't just see me as someone he needs to protect? That he sees me as more than a friend with benefits?

"Are you trying to say…" I begin.

"Maybe. I don't know." He gets up and comes right up to me. We're so close that I'm pressed against his body. "I don't know what I'm feeling and I don't know what I'm trying to say, but maybe…perhaps…I…" He trails off, clearly feeling uncomfortable about what he's admitting to. My heart his hammering so hard against my rib cage that it almost drowns out my thoughts.

I shake my head. "It's not going to work," I say. "I saw those donors' minds when I came in, and I really don't like the thought of sharing."

"You only have to ask," he says.

"Would you say yes if I did?" I whisper.

"I wouldn't say yes if it were anyone other than you, Sookie, but I want you to say it. Tell me that you want me and that you don't want to share me. Tell me what you feel."

"I don't know how to put it in words. Yes, I love you, Eric Northman, as insufferable as you are, and it kills me to think of you being with other women. I don't want any of them touching you. I want you for myself and I—"

I don't get to finish my sentence. He kisses me deeply and hungrily. Every touch is laced with need. I respond, entwining my fingers in his hair. This feels right. This _is_ right. Wait. He hasn't answered me. Granted, that wasn't a question, but still. I push him away. He growls, and his sweatpants are very strained. "Well?" I say. He doesn't say anything. I shriek as he scoops me up in his arms.

"Sookie Stackhouse, you have ruined me for all other women," he says huskily, his voice thick with desire. "I am yours alone. Do with me as you wish."

Well, that's not quite 'I love you too', but for Eric, it's more than close enough.


	18. In the Blink of an Eye

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. It belongs to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball. I do, however, own Barisan.

**A/N: **Updates are going to be pretty sporadic from now on. Journalism stuff is taking up most of my time. I will continue to work on the fic, though, as it keeps me relatively sane. Thanks for sticking with me! Your reviews and messages really brighten my day.

**Chapter 18: In the Blink of an Eye**

I don't really know how we managed to get back to my place. Well, we flew, and I'd left some windows open. It was really impressive that Eric could fly when he's also doing so many other things at once. I suppose I should have been scared but the funny thing is that I wasn't. I trusted that he wasn't going to let me fall, and he didn't.

Eric lays me down on my bed, as gently as if I'm made out of spun sugar. "Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are, Sookie?" he whispers. God, I love a man who can sweet talk me like that. It makes my bones melt. He is balancing on his hands and knees above me, with his knees to either side of my hips. He bends down to kiss the line of my jaw, running his lips down the side of my neck and to my collarbone, stopping just at the tops of my breasts because I've slip my hands up his shirt and I'm running my palms over the well-defined contours of his abs. His thick silky hair brushes against my skin.

This is not the time to be ladylike. I tug at his t-shirt and he helps me by ripping it off. I'm just going to say again how glorious his body is. I don't think I can ever get used to it. Eric's perfect form came from real labour and real fighting; there were none of those weight-lifting machines in his day. At any rate, I'm pretty sure that in his era, being fat was seen as being a good thing. There are a few pale puckered lines on his skin; ancient battle scars. I wonder about the stories behind them and the experiences that shaped Eric Northman. Even as a human, he couldn't have had it easy. No one had it easy in those days.

To be quite honest, I don't think I've ever inspected him with such detail before, and believe me, I've paid him a lot of attention over the past couple of weeks. This time, however, I am slowly savouring him, discovering him bit by bit. There is so much to learn; a thousand years of history. That's a lot. Well, not by geological standards, but as far as human history goes? Eric's a lot older than a lot of countries.

"Your fascination with my scars concern me, Sookie," he says as he catches onto what I'm doing. He seems amused that I'm so interested.

"You're like a living breathing historical artefact," I say. "You know so much about me —perhaps you know even more about me than I do— but I know next to nothing about you."

"There is time, my lover."

"It's a thousand years of experience."

"A thousand years of extreme boredom punctuated by short periods of extreme violence although there were occasionally some extremely rewarding moments." Huh. Everything's extreme. I guess Eric Northman's not a guy to do anything by moderation.

"Like?"

"Like now."

I arch my back against him as he reaches up my skirt. "Don't rip it," I manage to gasp. He growls, frustrated that it's going to take him longer to get what he wants, but he considerably unzips the skirt and then pulls it down my legs. I bury my fingers in his hair to try and anchor myself to this current reality. It's even more intense than our first time. I actually ache for him as he pulls my t-shirt over my head and nuzzles the base of my neck. I want him in me. I want him to be in me in every way possible, and I want some of myself in him too.

"You are so beautiful," he murmurs against my skin. He brushes his fangs along my collar bone and then traces a line up to the base of my jaw, just beneath my ear. His touch is feather-light, but it leaves a trail of fire. His hands are working miracles on the rest of my body. I don't know how he does it.

Fiery passion entwines itself around my very bones. I am consumed by need and desire and I know that he doesn't feel much different. But we are taking our time to savour each other, to relish in every moment and detail and to engrave it in our memories. There is so much more to making love than just the physical act. It's the intimacy. I can share anything with Eric and I can trust him with anything. To knowledge that I can rely on someone like that when I need to is elating.

"Now, Eric!" I gasp. "Please!"

"Patience, Lover," he purrs. He slips his fingers inside me, and electricity shoots up to the top of my head and the soles of my feet from my centre as he strokes me. It's not enough. I feel his hardness poking against my thigh. I want him to fill me. I dig my fingernails into his back, breaking skin and creating small crescents. The sting drives him wild —in a very good way.

It is a most satisfying feeling when you become one with the person you love. As he slides himself inside me down to the hilt, he sinks his fangs into my neck. There are fireworks in my vision. The electricity between us sizzles and makes my entire body tingle in a way that I've never felt before. Warmth spreads from my centre through my veins as we ride the wave together. My blood feels like liquid fire. I bite into Eric's shoulder as we approach the climax. My teeth may be blunt, but human teeth are more than capable of breaking skin. It's not like Eric has marble skin like Edward Cullen —thank God! His blood floods into my mouth, sweet and heady. I drink him in as he drinks me.

White light explodes. I have never been so aware of another person as I am of Eric right now. I feel his pleasure, his elation; our emotions mingle and strengthen as we each draw on the other. He screams something in a foreign language. I scream his name. Then he collapses on top of me. I like the feel of his weight on my body. He's so solid.

Yeah, that's probably not the most romantic word I can use to describe the man I love, but it's completely accurate.

"You're amazing, my lover," he murmurs as he rolls off me.

"You're not so bad yourself," I say.

"Not so bad?"

"I don't exactly have anything to compare you to." I roll over onto my stomach so that I'm facing him. His hair is spread in a golden fan across the pillows. "Although I don't think I ever want to have anyone else."

He reaches up to pull me down for a kiss

There's a flash of green and a clap. I'm so startled that I scream.

"Oh so _that_'s what it was," says Barisan.

"Don't you ever come through doors?" I snap at him as I hide behind Eric. Now I appreciate his broad shoulders all the more.

"Relax, Sookie. You're just one naked woman out of the many that I've seen." I throw a shoe at him and he nimbly dodges the projectile.

"What are you doing here?" Eric growls, clearly annoyed by the interruption.

—

I wake up feeling sore, but pleasantly so. It's that nice sort of ache kind of like the type you get after a satisfying day of hard work and you finally lie down in bed, and I am _very_ satisfied, although not necessarily about the hard day's work that I didn't do.

Eric's gone, of course. I sense the void of his mind in my closet and smile. I guess this is the vampire version of 'spending the night'. I'll have to light-proof one of the guest rooms. I can't make him sleep in the wardrobe all the time. You just don't make the guy you love sleep in the wardrobe, even if it is an air-conditioned wardrobe. Yes, my life will really fall apart if I ever had to go without electricity for over two hours.

"You're looking especially lovely today, Miss Sookie," says Norma Jean as she serves my breakfast in the lounge. I pour milk onto my Coco Pops —a guilty pleasure of mine. Eric and I exchanged blood last night. Not a lot, but a few drops of his very potent blood is enough to make my hair bouncier and shinier, and my skin more glowy. Too bad I'm still a brunette. I think I'll go and see my hairdresser today. I call ahead. Bruno is delighted to hear from me and he proceeds to tell me all the latest gossip —really, he's the only source a tabloid needs in order to fill a paper— until he finally realizes that he is human and does need to breathe. I book an appointment for the afternoon and then proceed to calculate the exact number of minutes until sunset.

Oh yes, I don't just think I'm in love. I think I'm _hopelessly_ in love. It's pathetic and I love it.

I sit there eating my breakfast with a goofy smile on my face for a couple of minutes until the phone rings. It's Sal, reminding me that I have yet another function to attend tonight. Shit. And I was hoping to spend the entire evening with a certain Viking. By that I mean in bed, not in a constricting designer dress that the Viking is going to think about ripping off all night. However, I have no choice. I need to have a good public image and I need the media exposure. It's not for me, per se, but for Hale Industries. Appearances are everything. Well, not everything but they're still quite important.

Well, I suppose that's one way to spend my time; I'm going to have to put together a killer outfit. I don't just want to impress the guests. I also want to keep my Viking on his toes and entertained. Well, if he agrees to be my plus one again.

Eric catches me in the middle of trying on my Lanvin python print silk halter-neck gown, which leaves my entire back exposed. "Event tonight?" he asks.

"Do you even need to ask?"

"Well, that's funny, because Pam's arranged for me to go to something tonight too," he says. The mild disgust in his voice makes me giggle. "Something to do with rehoming abandoned puppies or something."

"It's a dinner to raise funds for endangered wildlife," I say.

"I don't like wildlife, especially not the type with stripes and that wears purple pants."

"Purple _harem_ pants."

—

My dress is so spectacular that I don't need to accessorize much. I'm wearing a pair of nude Louboutin buckle sandals, my gold Cartier watch, a brass and crystal Alexander McQueen skull ring —I have a thing for McQueen and his skull-themed accessories— along with some Roberto Cavalli tusk-shaped mother of pearl and gold plate earrings that Tara would love. Speaking of Tara, I called to check up on her today and she still feels like crap. I tried to tell her to see the doctor again and she actually said she would consider my advice. That's testimony enough as to how awful she feels.

Eric's called Pam and asked her to deliver his tux. He hasn't specified which tux, so I hope Pam doesn't take revenge on His Bossiness and deliver a lavender one. Although, if there's one guy in the world who can pull off a lavender tux, then it's Eric.

Pam doesn't choose a lavender tux.

She chooses a maroon one. With mustard coloured stripes. I don't even want to _know_ where she got it and I'm sorry to say that the two of us burst into giggles as soon as we see Eric's reaction to it. I think Pam's choice is justified. Eric should learn to use 'please' and 'thank you' from time to time.

Although, I'm not sure I want to turn up to a black tie function with someone who's in a maroon and mustard tux. For one, I'll be constantly bent over double laughing. "Who do you think I am?" Eric demands. "Ron Weasley?"

"Ooh, my family colours!" says Barisan as he steps out of the elevator just in time to join in the fun. He's wearing a wicked grin, and when Eric isn't looking, I see him and Pam exchanging significant looks. The warlock is in on this. Maybe _he's_ the one who found such a hideous excuse for formal wear. I certainly wouldn't put it beyond him.

"Pam, are you looking to get demoted?" snarls Eric.

"I think the colours would complement your complexion," says Pam. Somehow, she manages to keep a straight face.

"And the Ibelins are a very prestigious house," adds Barisan. "You should be honoured that we're going to include you even though you're neither Greek nor French."

"It was your idea, wasn't it?" Eric says to him.

"Well, I suggested the colours, yes," says the warlock. "What can I say? I like these colours."

Eric thrusts the tux at him. "Then you wear it," he says. "Pam, get me another tux. Now."

"What's the magic word, Eric?" Pam asks sweetly as she bats her eyelashes at him. I'm laughing so hard that I think I have to go and fix up my make-up. The mascara says it's waterproof, but it can't be trusted.

"Black," says Eric.

"So much for getting him to say please," says Barisan.

"We tried," says Pam. "Turn it back to its original colour, warlock."

Barisan sighs. The maroon and mustard stripes disappear. Within minutes, Eric is dressed and looks like he ought to be on a catwalk for menswear shows. His shoes are even shinier than mine!

All right. My shoes are suede, so they can't shine at all.

"I still think you should have gone with the other colours," says Barisan. "Show some individualism!"

"I'd rather wear yellow spandex," says Eric as he offers his arm to me.

—

Everyone at the dinner knows who I am. Everyone knows who Eric is too. Rumours are running rife; if they're not whispering it then they're thinking it. In this case, the gossip is true. The paparazzi and the gossip bloggers are going to have a field day. It's a themed event. There are leopard print napkins and the entire place has been decorated to look like a rainforest.

Or the interior of one of the Rainforest Café restaurants, without the robotic animals, the sounds and the souvenir stalls. The food is also decidedly better than what's served at the Rainforest Cafés. I mean, I haven't seen caviar on their menus. There's also a selection of blended blood, with both regular and carbonated versions —vampire version of soda, I guess— all served in tall champagne flutes. There's even a miniature Aztec pyramid at one end, although what that has to do with wildlife is anyone's guess. I'm hoping that they're not implying native cultures are synonymous with wildlife. That's just insulting. Sometimes, people don't really think.

There are photographers everywhere —they're hired by the organizers, of course. The more pictures that come out with the press releases, the better. They need celebrities to attract attention to their cause. Speaking of the organizers, I have to question their choice of caterers. I mean, purple and green paisley bowties are way worse than maroon and mustard striped tuxes.

Yeah, it's awkward. I never thought I'd see Quinn again, but there he is, standing in the shadows and talking to one of the waiters. I know he's watching Eric and me, and even though I might not be able to read his mind very clearly, his anger is rolling off him in waves. There's quite a lot of desperation mingled with it too, although I'm not sure why. I mean, he can't be feeling that attached to me, can he?

"You know," Eric whispers, "I don't think they should invite wildlife to an event to raise funds _for_ wildlife." I nudge him in the ribs.

"Be nice," I whisper back.

"I'm not nice. That's part of the draw."

"You're insufferable."

"So you've told me many times in the past, right before you admitted your feelings for me."

"Is it not a tragedy, Mr. Northman, that I seem to have such bad taste in men?"

"On the contrary, Miss Stackhouse; I think you have an _excellent_ taste in men, barring a few lapses in the past."

We're getting quite a lot of curious looks from the people at our table —we're sharing it with Hoyt and his girlfriend Summer. Summer's a couple of years younger than me, and she's sweet…but she's not very bright and she can't exactly hold a riveting conversation. Her favourite things are antique dolls and that's all she talks about. Well, that's all she usually talks about. Right now, she's too busy staring at Eric to do much talking at all. She's a very clear broadcaster, and what I'm hearing from her isn't nice, which is surprising because I always thought of her as being a sweet girl. She thinks it's unnatural to want to be with someone dead, and she thinks Eric has no soul. I guess that's what those bigots say about vampires. She's not the only one who's thinking that. At least she's polite enough to keep it to herself.

Arlene stops by our table and gives Eric a brief dirty look before turning to me. "Sook, we need to talk," she says. I know exactly what she wants to talk to me about, but I excuse myself from the table anyway. It's only polite to not dismiss her completely, even though I know I'm going to have to tell her ultimately to mind her own business.

"Why are you back with the fanger again?" she demands of me as soon as we're inside the ladies' room. "What happened to that lovely man you brought to the Mortimers' brunch?"

"I wasn't his type and he wasn't mine," I say as I take out my concealer pen to give my make up a bit of a touch up.

"What's your type, Sookie Stackhouse? Dead and bloodsucking?" That just rubs me the wrong way.

"And is yours serial killer and psychopath?"

Arlene gasps. "You have no right!" she just about screeches.

"And you have no right to judge me for who I'm with, nor do you have any right to judge Eric," I say. "You don't know him, and I don't think you know me either." I put the cap back on my pen and tuck it into my purse. The conversation is over. Nothing she can say will make me change my mind, just as nothing I say will make her change hers. Therefore, there's no point in wasting breath.

It's one of the worst dinners I've ever had. The food's great, but I just have no appetite, and if not for Eric, I think I might have just lost my sanity. Then again, if Eric weren't here, people wouldn't have been thinking all those nasty thoughts, but I wouldn't trade his company for anything. I _know_ he's going to make me forget all the nastiness when we get back to my place.

Or his. It would be very interesting to see how the infamous Eric Northman lives—err…exists. I mean, is that bear pelt he's lying on in that Fangtasia calendar really real, or was it just photoshopped to look real? Then again, Eric doesn't seem to be the sort of guy who would go for photoshop. He'd take it as an insult.

—

I'm alone in bed and pale sunlight is shining through the blinds. Eric is long gone, but he's left me a note telling me that he's in my closet. Again. Seriously, I need to get a lightproof room fixed up for him. It's not nice to make him sleep in a closet, even if it's larger than some people's master suites and has air-conditioning —that stops mildew from growing on my clothes. It's only three in the afternoon, and there's still some time until sundown.

I decide to go shopping instead of stay inside moping until Eric wakes up. It is a favourite activity of mine, after all. Shopping, that is. What's the point of having all that money when you can't spend it? I suppose I could go and donate half of it to the poor homeless orphans in Africa or establish a women's shelter in Sudan or Congo —actually, I should look into that— but there are so many rules that limit you as to how you can actually do charitable works. Plus, I don't exactly want the money to end up funding terrorist cells or something.

However, as I ponder my plan to save the world, I might as well go and celebrate my new —and first!— relationship. I'm sure Eric would appreciate something new to rip off or unzip or untie or whatever. He seems to enjoy the undressing part almost as he does the act itself. Hmm…I wonder what borders on obscene and is still tasteful? Not his flowers, that's for sure. Those are squarely on the obscene side of things.

I prefer to shop on my own, to be honest. If I'm on my own, I can take time to peruse things and only buy the things I like. I might have a lot of wardrobe space, but I like to limit my clutter as much as possible. That doesn't stop me from having ten pairs of tailored boot-cut pants, of course, but I swear, they're all in different colours! Yes, there's even a purple pair (Louis Vuitton, and they're nothing like those hideous harem pants worn by he-who-shall-not-be-named —and I don't mean Voldemort).

I call Tara whilst I'm in the car to see if she's any better. She isn't, and she convinces me not to go over to her place because she doesn't want to pass on whatever she has. So that leaves me with quite a bit of time to go until I get to see that vampire of mine again. I think he has to work tonight, but that's okay, because it's time for my routine scan of Fangtasia anyway. Would it be too stalkerish for me to follow him to work?

I'm so busy wondering about my stalker tendencies that I don't notice _I'm_ being stalked. I mean, who would try to kidnap me in broad daylight in _Manhattan_? And where would they attempt such a thing?

Bathrooms, it turns out, are not good places for me. I'm just coming out of the stall in the ladies' when I hear the door open. I just manage to detect a snarly mind when a cloth is clamped over my mouth and nose. I try to scream and kick and claw at my attacker, but it's no use. There's something that smells sickly sweet and alcoholic on the cloth. My struggles have increased my breathing rate, and within moments, I'm out.

—

Something is wrong. He opens his eyes in the dark. He's in Sookie's closet, surrounded by her scent —and that of mothballs and fabric softener and lavender scented tissue paper— and he can't feel her. There is a lingering sense of fear, but it is long gone. He opens the closet door. It is completely dark outside. The only human present is Sookie's housekeeper, who probably doesn't know he's here. She wasn't there when he came in with Sookie last night. Of Sookie, there is no sign. That is strange. He concentrates on the blood. She is very far away. _Very_ far. Like…out of his area of jurisdiction.

He focuses some more. She's slowly waking up, and she's disorientated and frightened. That's enough to convince him that she's in trouble. Well, the fact that she's not in New York is a huge clue. Eric zooms out the window.

—

This is really _not funny_. It's the second time I've been attacked in a bathroom and the second time I've been kidnapped. This kidnapper is a lot better than Compton because he actually thought to drug me. Or her. I'm not sure how a guy managed to get into the ladies, so I'll assume it's a female were.

I'm locked in yet another ostentatious room. This one has a wardrobe full of showgirl costumes, and much to my fury and disgust, there's a metal collar around my neck. Hello! Bondage has never been in to my knowledge. I tug at it, but it is futile. There's a lock. The door's locked too, and the ventilation shaft is way too high for me to reach, even if I stand on top of two chairs. Hmmm…what about three chairs?

How am I going to climb on top of three chairs?

I cast out my thoughts, trying to find out where I am. There are several voids—vampires. And then there are the snarly red minds that denote weres, and one mind, in particular, is very familiar. John Quinn.

I place my ear against the door. He's arguing with someone, and they're obviously not afraid of being overheard because neither of them is making any effort to lower their voices. "You promised!" Quinn snarls.

"I promised to let your family go, _Senor _Quinn," says the other person. A vampire. "I never said anything about you."

Quinn growls.

"I will make you another deal, _Senor_ Quinn," says the vampire. "You bring me the fangs of Eric Northman, and I will grant you freedom. Yes?"

Quinn doesn't say anything, but the argument doesn't continue, so he must have said yes. And in the meantime, I've put together the puzzle. Quinn has something to do with my abduction. It probably has something to do with the fact that he and his family is not free. It doesn't make me any less furious. I mean, here is _another_ guy who's tried to woo me in order to use me! Why do I keep meeting these people? I congratulate myself for not falling for him. A person's fashion sense says a lot about them. In Quinn's case, it says that he puts a lot of effort into hiding who he is.

I jump back from the door as it opens. A handsome vampire strides in, as pompous as Napoleon. "Miss Stackhouse!" he says. "At last, we meet! Welcome to Nevada!"

"Well, thank you, Senor, but I think I'd better go back to New York now," I say.

"Oh, I am sorry, but you cannot do that," says the vampire. "You live in Nevada now. Let me introduce myself. I am Felipe de Castro, King of Nevada. You may address me as 'Your Majesty'."

"Listen, Mr. de Castro," I say. "You can't keep me here against my will. That's illegal, and when people find out, you're going to have a PR nightmare on your hands."

"Oh, how touching," he says. "You are worried about me. But, there is no need. No one will find out about us,_ mi mascot_."

"Eric will find me," I say, and I believe what I'm saying. "He'll find me and when he does, you'll regret you ever tried this."

"Perhaps he will find out," says de Castro. "But he will be helpless in the matter." His fangs drop. I try to get away, but he's too fast for me. He grabs me and pins me down to the floor. I scream and curse, but I can't free myself. I feel like a fish thrashing in the jaws of a shark; I know I can't get away but I have to try nonetheless.

His fangs sink into my flesh.

—

"Hurry up, Frenchman!"

"You won't speed things up by shouting in my ear every three seconds!"

"Be calm, my child. We will find her."

It is a strange sight. Three vampires —Eric, Godric and Pam— and one warlock are gathered around a stainless steel kitchen sink filled with water. "Blood," says Barisan. Eric pricks his finger on his fang and lets a drop of his blood fall into the water. The warlock places his hand just above the surface of the water. Tendrils of red snake out from the central droplet. Images begin to form, and then they shatter. For a moment, Eric feels dizzy, and he reaches out to find something to steady himself with. What is going on? He's never felt this way before; at least, not as a vampire.

"What's happening?" Pam demands.

"The blood's not working," says Barisan.

"What do you mean it's not working?" says Pam. "Sookie's had Eric's blood, hasn't she, so she's linked to him, right?"

"Something's overriding it," says Barisan. "My guess is that she's ingested a lot of another vampire's blood. Someone's forced her to bond with them."

Eric lets out a string of unwholesome words in every language he knows, both extinct ones and ones that are still in usage. "Take me there now!" he snarls. He wants to stake some vampire like a kebab, and he has a feeling he knows exactly which vampire he wants to stake. Surprisingly, it's not Compton, who is still locked in Fangtasia's basement. Chow has taken over the fun of interrogating him right now.

"I would if I knew where," says Barisan. "Pam, could you please get me Sookie's hairbrush?"

"Now's not the time for hairstyling," says Pam.

"I want her DNA. There might be epithelials or hair roots."

"What the fuck do you want with her DNA?" demands Eric.

"Location spells are based on DNA. Why do you think Sookie's blood worked for locating Hunter and Jason? They share common alleles that—all right, you don't want a lesson in genetics. Ah, yes. Here's a beautiful hair root. Pam, I need a couple more hairs with the root still intact. That's where the DNA is."

"I help run a bar," Pam mutters as she tries to dislodge hair from the brush with Sookie's eyebrow tweezers. "I am _not_ a forensic scientist." She extracts three more hairs, which Barisan drops into the sink. With the hair, it takes a while longer for images to form, and they are not as vivid, but they see more than enough. Eric's blood boils. How dare De Castro do this? He vows to tear him asunder; he will rip his limbs from his body, impale him with his own femur before leaving him out to die in the sun.

"Damn it!" Barisan hisses. "There are strong wards. I can't get enough detail to triangulate."

"Are you fucking incompetent!" snarls Eric. He knows it's not his friend's fault, but all this anger has to go _somewhere_.

"Peace," says Godric. "Fighting amongst ourselves will not help Sookie. Warlock, take us to Nevada. We will scout the area and make our plans then. Pamela, you stay behind and look after the principality as acting regent, and watch the child and his father in our absence. Eric, try not to do anything…stupid."

—

You know that scene in the Wolverine movie when Wolverine wakes up and bursts out of that water tank with a roar? That's who I feel like. I actually want to end someone. Preferably Felipe. I know there's this whole thing in Christianity about turning the other cheek and forgiving other people, but I am not Jesus. I just can't forgive the things that these vampires here in Nevada have done to me.

I can sense De Castro's glee and anticipation. He's looking forward to doing this again tonight. To further try and break me. A part of him wishes that I weren't so much trouble, but he enjoys my pain and my fear. He also doesn't understand why he can't control me even though he's bound me to him by blood.

I struggle against my bonds. The manacles cut into my flesh and make my wrists bleed. If he finds me trying to escape, I know he'll hurt me again. But I'm not giving up. I can't. One, I'm too proud to surrender and two, I have everything to live for and everything to lose. Not once did I doubt that Eric would come for me. I still have no doubts. Maybe my faith in him would be called stupid. I don't really care. I _know_ he'll come. He's never failed me and he won't fail me now.

I tug at my chains and cast out my thoughts yet again, determined to make another escape attempt. The corridor is filled with were guards. I cast my mind out further.

And then someone finds me, and I don't think I've ever been so happy to be caught browsing through minds. '_Sookie?'_ asks Barisan. '_You're alive!'_

'_Sorry to disappoint you,' _I say, all the while wondering how I can be so calm. Am I still in shock and not really processing what's happened? I only have anger and hope in me. The rest is still kinda lagging behind. I guess everything else will catch up later and then I'll be a psychological wreck. I wonder if there's a shrink out there who specializes in supernatural PTSD. I don't think I can talk to a normal shrink about this. The last thing I need is for someone to spout psychological theories at me about grieving and denial and acceptance.

'_Hang in there, little faerie,'_ he tells me. '_We're coming for you. Just relax and let me in.'_

I don't know what he means by that and I'm really to tell him that he can try relaxing when he's just been bitten and tortured and…other things. But I don't. He's an eight hundred year old warlock and he probably knows what he's doing. I try my best to relax by thinking about something nice. Like last night—no, not last night. That doesn't exactly have the relaxing effect I want. I think about Saint Tropez and the holiday Gran and Jason and I went on when I was fourteen. The French girls loved Jason even though his French was utterly horrendous, and still is. He's the type of guy who says 'mercy bow coop' instead of '_merci beaucoup_'.

I don't know how he managed it, and at the moment, I'm not really caring, but Barisan is suddenly completely immersed in my mind. He's using my senses; my sight, my hearing, my smell, and I manage to slip into his mind. It's the first time I've done that. He blocks out most of his thought processes, of course, and his shields are strong. However, I can hear Eric shouting and snapping at everyone, and he looks absolutely murderous. Godric's here too. I'm glad; I think we'll need all the help we can get.

Then everything is back to normal. I'm in my body and very aware of every nerve ending. There's a clap and a flash of green light. Before I know it, the manacles are opened and I'm freed. Well, as free as I can be when I'm locked in a room with two vampires and one warlock.

"Sookie," whispers Eric as he gathers me into his arms. I seek comfort in his embrace, but De Castro's blood is overwhelming any warm fuzzies I might be getting. That vampire is slime through and through. I don't think I've ever wanted a lightsabre so much in my life. I would just love to decapitate him and he knows it. I can sense what he's feeling, and if I concentrate, I can actually pick up snippets of his thoughts. It's like dipping your hand into a jar full of scorpions.

"They're coming!" I gasp. "We have to get out!"

"Not until we get his blood to break the bond," says Eric stubbornly.

Instead of waiting for the enemy to come through, we attack first. The best defence is an offence.

Or is it the other way around?


	19. Two Steps From Hell

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. It belongs to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball. Barisan, however, is mine. **

**A/N: **Things are going to take a dark turn here, at least for a while. This chapter was emotionally draining to write and I had to go over it and mull over it many times. I don't mean to offend anyone, so if you think I've gotten anything wrong, please just send me a message telling me where you think I went wrong. I have tried my best to do research on the topic, but the only thing I've found is that reactions and healing processes vary so widely that there seems to be no right or wrong.

**Chapter 19: Two Steps from Hell**

Eric has read Sun Tzu's _Art of War_ cover to cover multiple times. I know this because there's a pretty tattered copy of it in his office. Pam once told me he even has a Chinese copy from the early Qing era, even though he can't read Chinese. And I'm pretty sure he's memorized all the tactics because as soon as the door bursts open the wrong way, forced out by the unexplained powers of a warlock, he lunges for De Castro. Sun Tzu always said that to capture a band of robbers, one must first capture their chief.

Felipe De Castro was a Conquistador in his human life. He was just as nasty as he is now, except back then, he didn't have fangs. An angry Aztec vampire changed all of that. The undead Aztec warrior meant to punish him for the atrocities that De Castro committed against his people, but then he got himself killed and accidentally unleashed Felipe De Castro on the world.

Being wily and manipulative, he backstabbed his way to the top, and he's proud of everything he's ever done. In fact, he likes to brag about his 'conquests', both during his human life and his vampire life.

However, no matter how wily or dangerous De Castro is, he's less than five hundred years old. Eric is over a thousand. And then there's Godric, who's older than Jesus, and a former crusader turned warlock. However, De Castro does have the advantage of being on his home turf and having greater numbers.

I don't know how I can be so calm in this situation. I think it's the shock and adrenaline. Well, I'm not exactly calm per se, but I'm just…not scared. When you think about it, it's really quite alarming. I mean, I'm the vulnerable human here. I'm the one who everyone seems to want to kidnap and exploit. I should be a little more worried about my own safety, but I just can't bring myself to feel anything except that slowly bubbling rage inside of me.

Eric knocks De Castro to the floor, using his bigger bulk —and superior speed and fighting skills— to his best advantage. Godric and Barisan are keeping the rest of them at bay; Godric using his strength and Barisan using magical fire. If there is one thing that vampires loathe more than silver, it's fire. Well, and wooden stakes, but they have to take them in the heart in order for them to do any lasting damage. On the other hand, they're more flammable than most creatures and catch fire as if they've been doused in oil.

Godric is faster than even Eric. I think it comes with the age. It's funny, because older humans are usually slower. Vampires are just the opposite. Eric's maker might have a problem with killing humans, but when it comes to killing vampires with malicious intentions, he has no qualms. And he's good. I mean, he could be a weapon of mass destruction if he wanted to. The speed at which vampires fall around him is amazing. He doesn't even get blood spatter on his clothes because he is out of the way before the blood can land on him.

Whenever two great animals fight, there is always a lesser animal waiting. In this case, the lesser animal is Victor Madden, De Castro's second in command and all-round lapdog. He had his turn with me last night. I can't decide whether I hate him or his master more. He lunges for Eric, but the Viking is too skilled a warrior to have not anticipated an attack from the back. At the last minute, he swings around and uses De Castro as a shield. The pain pierces me as if I'm the one who's been staked. De Castro does not attempt to shield what he's feeling from me. It's not as if he cares if I'm hurt or not. I collapse. The pain is so intense that I can't even scream. And then, luckily for me, I don't remember anything more.

—

When I wake up, I am lying alone in my own bed. I can hear voices outside; hushed horrified whispers. It is dark in my room, but that's only because the curtains are drawn. From the tiny slit of light, I can tell that it's day. Eric's scent lingers. I have no doubt that he was with me all night. There is an acute sense of loss inside me. Even though I am surrounded by the luxury of home comforts, things just seem to be veiled in muted shades of grey.

How do you go back to the way things were after going through what I've been through? I'm scarily calm. The emotional tempest inside my mind is hushed, as if I'm looking at it from afar through a triple-glazed window. The buffeting winds and the rain cannot reach me. I suppose I just can't come to the terms that I am the one that this has happened to. And perhaps I don't want to come to terms with it.

I methodically strip off my dirty clothes in my bathroom and let them fall in a pile on the cold tiles. I stand in front of the mirror, naked. I have no marks to show for my ordeal. No bruises, no grazes, not even a paper cut. The excessive amounts of De Castro's blood that I was forced to drink means that I am in perfect physical health. I am exhausted, and yet I don't even have dark shadows under my eyes. If I looked crap, then I might be more comfortable about feeling crap, but I look great. I shouldn't look great.

Hot water sluices down my body as I turn on the shower. I turn it as hot as I can stand and then lather myself with soap. I scrub, rinse, lather again and repeat the whole process until my skin is as red as a cooked lobster and I feel as if I've been scrubbing myself with one. The rawness and the near pain keep me focused so that I can't think about what happened. I don't want to think about how I feel about it. I don't come out until the bathroom is so fogged up that I might as well have been standing inside a warm storm cloud. To be honest, I would have stayed in there for longer but then I thought about all the children in third world countries who die each year because they don't have access to clean drinking water and I started to feel guilty.

Tara and Barisan stop their conversation immediately when they see me coming out, dressed in my corporate armour and briefcase in hand.

"Sook…" Tara whispers. She doesn't know what to say. She feels really bad for me. She's confused. She's upset. I don't want her to pity me. I don't need anyone's pity. She pulls me into a hug, and I return it stiffly out of obligation.

"I have to go to work," I say.

"Sookie, perhaps you should not rush yourself," says Barisan. "You've been through a lot."

"A lot of women have been through the same thing, and they get on with their lives. I wasn't raped with a bayonet like those women in Congo, and I wasn't put in a sex factory for invading soldiers."

"Just because it has happened to many others does not negate your suffering, Sookie. Don't downplay it."

"Don't presume that you know what I'm feeling or how I should be feeling, Barisan d'Ibelin. I'm fine. There is abso-fucking-lutely nothing wrong with me!" I hate it that they're treating me like fragile spun glass. I'm not fragile. I'm strong, and I will prove it. I push past the two of them. In the elevator, I call Louis and tell him to bring the car around. I've neglected my company for too long. Now it's time to take charge.

—

The office is an absolute mess. I don't know why I've never noticed it before. No one is working. They're stealing office supplies or making out in the copy room. I fire four people just for that. They're all on Facebook or Myspace, playing insipid clicking browser games that involve collecting milk from virtual cows. I fire five more people for that and give fourteen people warnings before going to the techs and telling them to block all social networking sites on company computers. Even the laptops that we distribute amongst employees who are of the rank to get them. I'm not going to be soft and let people walk all over me any longer. From now on, I will be strong and the world will know it; _I_ will know it.

I demand to see the accounts from the past year. The numbers confuse me and numb my mind further, which is what I want. I feel productive and strong and definitely _not_ helpless. Who am I? I'm Sookie Stackhouse, CEO of Hale Industries, fashionista and blue blood. Felipe De Castro is nothing. _Nothing. _Nothing except a pile of ash. They will find no weakness in me; no chink in my armour for them to exploit.

And that niggling little voice crying out in pain in the back of my mind will simply be drowned. I won't hear it, and no one else will hear it, not even busybody telepathic warlords. But for now, I'll just have to ignore its pathetic keening. It doesn't have a right to keen.

Many women have survived much worse. They just got on with their lives. I don't have a right to complain. My attacker is dead, which is more than I can say for those women; some of their rapists are being honoured in a shrine that's visited by prime ministers every year and they're still waiting for an apology that's been overdue for six decades. At least De Castro paid for it, and he can't hurt anyone anymore. Really, what have I to complain about? There is no lasting damage.

That little voice can just shut up and no matter what they say, I _know_ there's nothing wrong with me.

Or do I?

Work keeps me from thinking about what I feel. The only thing I know is this irrational and incessant anger and a need to prove that I am on top of my game. I can't be helpless. I can't be even slightly vulnerable. In short, I can't be human.

I feel cold inside, so I send Louis out for a bottle of whisky. The liquor warms me from within as it goes down my throat. I feel slightly better so I continue working, poring over those numbers and trying to make sense of them even though I don't know the next thing about accounting. I pester the accountants and reduce a couple of them to tears. I track down minute spending, down to the last sheet of A4 paper.

The noise in the office overwhelms my mind and I welcome all that white noise. It keeps me from hearing things that I don't want to hear. By the end of the day, I am exhausted and against my wishes, my eyes close when I'm in the car on my way home.

I see him, his hands grabbing and squeezing. I try to get away but I am tied down. I scream, but no one hears me, or if they do, they ignore me. I see his fangs, so long and sharp and deadly. I feel him against my leg. I don't want him. He doesn't care. He just wants to exert his power over me. Sexual pleasure is secondary. I want to get away, but I am trapped and too weak from blood loss. There is nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. I scream so much that my throat hurts and my voice is hoarse. Where is Eric? Where is Fintan? Where is Barisan? Where are all these people when I need them the most? I am alone in the dark. I feel pain, I feel despair, I—

"Miss Sookie!" I jerk away as I feel someone shaking my arm and I open my eyes, terrified that I will see De Castro's slightly glowing outline and his leer. Instead, it's Louis, looking down at me with concern. "Are you all right, Miss Sookie?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" I say, more sharply that I probably should. Then I feel guilty. It's not Louis' fault. He has no idea what's going on. He doesn't look as if he believes me but he lets it slide. He thinks I'm smart enough to get help if I need it.

Well, I don't need help. I'm just fine, thank you very much. And who can help me anyway? Can they turn back time? Not even the best sorcerer can do that, or else there'd be a lot of wrinkles in history. If they can't do that, then there is nothing they can do to help me. It's so presumptuous of them to think that they _know_ what to do with me just because they've read about it in some psychological journal. How can they possibly know? It's such an arrogant notion.

I get out of the car. I've brought work home with me in my briefcase. I think I'll look over those records a bit more. There's something fishy in there. I know there is. There must be in a company this large. Gran couldn't possibly have ensured that everyone did their job properly. She was getting on a bit and there's just so much.

Eric's waiting for me. I don't know what to say to him. I can't feel anything. I won't let myself anything, because if I open up myself to the slightest hint of emotion then that annoying little voice just gets louder. I can't have chinks in my armour.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"I am concerned for you, Sookie," he says softly.

"I'm fine! Why won't anyone believe me?"

"Sookie, what you've been through is…"

"Oh, so you think I should be a broken lifeless husk of my former self just because I've been raped? You think I should be this useless snivelling little bitch who wishes she could die but doesn't have the guts to commit suicide?"

"Sookie, grieving is normal. There is nothing to be ashamed of. You were hurt. Badly. And I should have been there to stop it but I failed you. Rape…is not just an act. It damages something inside you…I cannot explain it very well."

"Oh, so you think I'm _damaged_, do you? You think I'm good enough for you anymore, Mr. Perfect? Well, let me tell you something. I wasn't the one fucking three whores with self-esteem issues all at once!"

He gapes at me, completely robbed of the ability of speech for once. I see the hurt in his eyes, and for a moment I feel sorry, but then the anger surges up again. I don't even know _why_ I'm angry anymore. I mean, I've been angry the whole day. The slightest things irk me, like how there weren't enough chocolate sprinkles on my frappuccino. I guess it's just easier to be angry than to be something else.

"Just go," I say, pointing to the elevator. "I have work to do and I'm sure you have work to do."

"Sookie, I—"

"I don't want you here tonight. If I want you, I'll call you. If not, don't come."

He does what I ask and leaves. It doesn't make me feel any better at all. Energy gathers behind my eyes as my frustration wells up. I scream. An antique Georgian vase shatters into smithereens of equal size. I'm exhausted, drained, cold. I drink my whisky. It warms me up temporarily. I sit down at my desk and I pull out the files.

Numbers swirl. Numbers blur. I drown in those numbers and I don't stop churning through them until the sky grows dark and then becomes light again. I shower, get dressed, and call for Louis. Hale Industries needs a lot of work. Anyone who turns up fifteen minutes late will get a warning. Anyone who turns up twenty minutes late will get fired today. It's time for a purge.

And perhaps another drink of whisky.

—

He doesn't know what to do. She won't let him in, and he feels that if he pushed her a little more, she might just cut him out of her life entirely. He didn't know it was possible to feel such pain for someone else, but he knows it now. He is hurting. Badly. He wishes, more than anything, that he could turn back time. Failing that, he would gladly relieve her of her pain by whatever means necessary, even if it meant he had to take it on himself. But how could he do it? This isn't something that can be traded.

Eric punches the wall in frustration. Plaster cracks and his knuckles are split by the force of the impact. They heal quickly. There are bloody marks on his otherwise pristine office wall. He'll call Herveaux and get him in to fix it. And paint his office red so that future bloodstains don't show up so well.

—

I don't dare to close my eyes. I hardly dare to blink in case that moment of darkness takes me back to other moments. I keep on telling myself that it's over. I survived. De Castro didn't. Eric saved me. But even though it in my head, reality doesn't sink in. It's as if the whole damn thing is playing on a loop and the forward button is malfunctioning.

How do you fix someone's mind? As a telepath, I've seen my share of damaged minds in more detail than I would ever want to. But I think I'm one of the worst cases yet. This overwhelming anger, combined with booze and lack of sleep; it's doing me in. I think…it's the third day that I haven't slept? I don't know. It just seems a lot longer than three days. I'm feeling lightheaded and I'm not steady on my feet. Plus everyone's terrified of me because I keep snapping and firing people left and right. I can taste their fear at the back of my throat. There is perverted delight in wielding such power, but I can't help but think that I'm abusing it.

Stuff it. I don't think I can think at all right now. I empty my whisky bottle. Damn. I'm going to have to send Norma Jean out to get me more. The anger is still there. It has to go somewhere, and I've been trying to dispel it, but it's like the gift that keeps on giving. The more I direct it at others, the more I have inside of me. It doesn't make any fucking sense.

I shout for my housekeeper. The apartment is silent. I don't even sense a mind. Fucking bitch is slacking. Why the fuck is everyone so fucking incompetent? For no reason at all, I swipe all the things on my desk onto the floor. The crystal paperweight shatters. I feel like that paperweight. Just bit. Except I _refuse_ to shatter! I won't!

"Sookie," says a soft voice. I whip around to see a woman standing behind me. She is beautiful, with pale skin that has an ethereal glow. If not for the colour in her cheeks, I would have thought she was a vampire.

"Who the fuck are you?" I demand. I'm beyond politeness.

"It doesn't matter, does it?" she asks. I take a step towards her. That's when I notice that she's actually translucent, and she has no substance.

"You're not even real!"

"Again, that's not important," she says. "Why are you so angry, Sookie?"

"Are you really gonna ask me that?" I say.

"Yes," she says. "Why are you angry? Why are you pushing everyone away?"

"I'm not—" I just about spit out, but then I stop. I _am_ angry for a reason that I can't comprehend, and I _have_ been pushing people away. The things that I've said to Eric and to Tara and to Barisan… They didn't deserve any of it. So why did I say all those things? What's with the 'fuck the world' attitude?

I stare at her, wondering if she's a) my guardian angel or b) my calm and rational inner self who knows what I need. Or she's not any of those things. But then, who is she and how does she seem to know me so well? I ask her again, but she doesn't answer. She just looks at me with those clear grey-blue eyes as if she's willing me to examine myself from the outside. And something about her did make me see.

My anger stems from what happened to me in Nevada. De Castro is still influencing me, and that means he's winning. I won't let him dominate my life, especially not when he's dead. I can't let this bog me down forever; I need to move forward.

I open my mouth to speak again, to ask the woman what I should do, how I should act, but she's already gone; disappeared as if she was just a figment of my imagination. I am alone again; so terribly alone and isolated, standing in the middle of my huge penthouse with the lights off. I miss my friends. I miss Gran, I miss Tara, Jason, Pam, Barisan...

And I miss Eric.

I call for my driver again; I'm going to Fangtasia.

—

The loud beat of the music can be heard before I'm even inside the club. There is a huge line outside waiting to get in; there seem to be just as many people staggering out, glamoured. Suddenly, I'm wondering at the wisdom of coming to Fangtasia. I could have easily just called. Although I don't know whether Eric would still want to talk to me after what had happened and what I said to him, and phone calls are so impersonal. Besides, I don't really know what to say.

Fangtasia's still the same, except the staff seem more nervous than usual. Pam spots me. It's awkward. I don't know how much she knows. In an instant, she's by my side. Instead of making some innuendo-filled compliment as she usually does, she just doesn't say anything to me. Rather, she takes me by the arm —so gently that I suspect she knows everything— and steers me towards the back of the club. I guess I am predictable.

My breath hitches in my throat when I see Eric. I'm frightened, I'm ashamed, I want to hide under the covers and never see the light of day again. Damn that De Castro. He's already disrupted my life too much. I am _not_ going to let him come between me and the one person in the world who cares the most about me.

Well, if you don't count faerie grandfathers who make non-appearances whenever I most need him, except that once.

Yes, why wasn't Fintan there to save me the way he always saves me? Did something happen to him?

Eric rises to his feet. He looks even paler than usual and there are bloodstained towels on his desk, but I don't really make any connections. I'm hyperventilating and I haven't even started talking yet. Pam leaves us and softly closes the door behind her so we can have some privacy. "Eric…" I begin. "I'm sorry."

"Sookie, what—" he begins, but I'm too nervous to register that he's saying something and I plough on.

"I don't know what made me say those things. I feel so dirty and ashamed and I don't know what I should do. I'm scared of what I'm feeling and even though I know I shouldn't be feeling this way, I do, and I think I'm going crazy because I'm so confused. I'm sorry. I really am. I'm so sorry."

"Sookie, when was the last time you slept?" he asks gently. I shake my head.

"I don't know," I say. "Three days? I haven't slept since I woke up that time and said all those things to you."

"Sookie, that was five days ago. You need to sleep."

"I don't want to sleep." I'm tired as, but whenever I close my eyes, I see De Castro and the way he looked when he forced himself upon me. The malicious glee in his eyes will haunt me forever. "I have…dreams, and they're so real, and…I'm…I'm scared. I feel so alone." I wrap my arms around myself. I'm shaking and I'm cold.

"Are you sending me away? Do you not want me anymore?"

That got him moving. In an instant, he's standing right before me, his eyes boring into mine. There's about six inches between us. He seems tentative about making physical contact. He lifts his hands slowly, as if asking for my permission. I lean in just a little. Right after I came back to New York, the very thought of touching another person, especially a man, terrified me, but now I realize that I can't keep myself isolated like that if I want to move on. And besides, this is Eric. He almost died for me. He pulls me in, slowly, as if he's afraid that I'll crumble beneath his fingers. To be honest, I'm trying hard not to have an emotional breakdown and not really succeeding. I don't really know why I'm crying, but I just want to cry.

"I wish you could read my mind so you would know just how much I want you," he says. I finally allow myself to relax and lean against him. A torrent of tears come, and the fear that I've been holding in for the past few days comes pouring out. I'm exhausted and I've had enough of feeling so afraid.

"But I'm damaged—"

"No, you're not," he insists. "You're not damaged. You are a beautiful and strong woman who has been through something that no one in the world should have had to endure. It doesn't change the way I…you know." Eric still doesn't like the word 'feelings'. Perhaps things haven't changed as much as I thought. "You shouldn't apologize. You're not in the wrong. This wasn't something you wanted; it wasn't something you could help. You have no cause for shame."

I let him convince me to let him take me home so I can get some sleep, on the condition that he stays in the apartment with me. I don't want to be alone. He agrees immediately. I think he doesn't want me out of his sight either, and is only afraid that I will have personal space issues.

He waits in the bedroom whilst I get out of my work clothes and shower. I've lost ten pounds, and my face is gaunt with fear and exhaustion. If someone put me side by side with a vampire and then asked someone to determine who's the corpse, I bet that other person won't pick the vampire. I look like I've been mummified and no matter what Eric says, I don't feel beautiful at all. I put on my oldest, most comfortable pyjamas and wrap a fluffy dressing gown around me. I'm still shivering. Maybe a bit of whisky? But no. I don't want to become an alcoholic. I have to rise above this. There is no other way. It's so hard. Right now, I think I hate myself more than anything.

I wake several times from nightmares throughout the night. Each time, Eric is there to reassure me that I'm okay, that I'm safe. I believe him. Not once does he get in with me, and I'm thankful. I know he must have been tempted. This is Eric we're talking about. Sleep is not particularly restful, but I'll take any that I can get.

I wake up late the next morning, and surprisingly, not from a nightmare. For the first time in days, I feel the desire to eat something. I'm not quite up for cream cheese and smoked salmon yet, but some fruit and yoghurt, or maybe some comforting porridge, would be nice. I find Tara in the kitchen, sipping on a cup of herbal tea.

"Hey," I say awkwardly.

"Hey," she says. Tara seems frailer and quieter than usual. I've been so busy with my own problems that I haven't taken any notice of hers. "Eric called me. He said you'd probably want the company." That Viking always seems to be right.

I sit down at the breakfast bar after putting two pieces of wholemeal bread in the toaster. There is no porridge to be had. My housekeeper is nowhere in sight and I don't think I can bear going out onto the street today. Is it Norma Jean's day off? I'll have to check the calendar to see what day it is. Toast will do for now. I just need to get some food in my stomach so I don't waste away. I can't recover if I starve.

Tara is emitting waves of turmoil and anxiety. It's mixed in with guilt and anger. Normally, I try my best to block out my friends' thoughts, but these few days have left me drained and my shields aren't as good as they usually are. I catch some unwelcome images of her and Barisan —sex is most unsavoury to me now, even the consensual kind— and quickly recoil. "Tara, what's wrong?" I ask. "Did something happen between you and Barisan?" My first line of thought is that he broke up with her. Eric has always said that he's not one for long term relationships.

"Oh yeah, something fucking happened, all right," she said. "Remind me never to have sex again — I'm sorry, Sook. I shouldn't be talking like this to you."

"I'm not so fragile that I'm going to break whenever I hear the word." At least, I don't want to be that fragile. At any rate, hearing about other people's problems might help me to take my mind off mine. Avoidance probably isn't the best way of coping, but at least I'm not so angry anymore. "Tell me what's wrong, Tara Thornton. I'm your best friend. We tell each other everything."

"I'm pregnant."

I wasn't expecting that, and to be honest, I don't know whether I should be congratulating her or damning the warlock to hell and back. Tara's never been into motherhood and having babies. It comes from her bad experiences with her mother as a child. Her mother was a rich man's mistress for a short while, and she was also an alcoholic. My friend declared after her divorce that she would never marry again or bog herself down with useless husbands and stinking children. I guess she won't have the useless husband this time round, but as for the baby…

"What are you going to do? Does he know?"

"I don't know what I'm going to do and he fucking reads minds so of course he knows! What was I thinking, Sook?"

"You probably weren't."

"You got that right."

"Are you going to keep the baby?"

"I don't know. It doesn't feel right to get rid of the damn thing just because I feel like killing its father right now, but…I can't be a mom! I wouldn't know what to do! It was just that _one_ time when we didn't use a condom. Just that once! I guess it only takes once, doesn't it?"

I don't really know what else to do, so I hug her. People need physical contact. We yearn for hugs and kisses from our loved ones. It's part of the human condition. A touch can convey so much. I need comfort as much as she does, to be honest. My entire life's turned upside down and inside out, and I'm just trying to make sense of it. I guess it's the same for her. We're both venturing into unchartered territory.

"Whatever you do, I'll still love you, you know," I whisper.

"I love you too, Sook."

—

Days pass. Months. I continue to keep myself busy, but I don't drive myself to the point of insanity. Finding balance is not easy, and most nights, I'm so tired that all I want to do is fall into bed. Tiredness is good. It produces deep sleep with dreams that I can't remember. Gradually, I no longer need people to sit with me each night. For the first couple of months, my friends took shifts to guard me and be my 'dreamcatcher'.

I guess the prospect of a new baby encouraged me to find colour in life again, somehow. It's not just about me anymore. There is going to be a vulnerable new being. A mage's child is in danger from the moment it takes its first breath, and it's going to take all of us to protect that baby, just as we're all doing what we can to keep Hunter safe. Yes, we're the supernatural babysitters' club. I think that's the only reason why Tara hasn't attempted to kill the warlock yet. I still don't get their non-relationship, and frankly, I am too concerned with my own problems to ask. Apparently, there are a lot of complicated supernatural politics involved.

I am determined to get rid of De Castro once and for all. I refuse to have him for carry-on emotional luggage. I never wanted him, so I will not have him. It's easier said than done, but by the time Tara is in her third trimester, I can fall asleep by myself after waking from a nightmare. It might not seem like much, but for me, it's huge.

You know when your life seems to be going fine, something has to jump in and ruin that semblance of perfection? Well, my life's far from perfect, but you know what I mean. I'm on the way to recovery, I have a lot of people who love me and a man who will wait for me to be ready to have sex again —Eric and abstinence really do not belong in the same sentence, but somehow, he's managed it for this long— and my company's share prices are rising.

So it stands to reason that disaster has to strike, and it comes in the form of family.

My family, to be exact, and no, I don't mean the Stackhouses or the Hales.


	20. Stand and Rise

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. They belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball. I do, however, own Barisan.

**Chapter 20: Stand and Rise**

It starts on Christmas Eve when I'm with Eric in the Hamptons. I've decided not to sell the house. It's been in the family for generations, and although there are bad memories for me here, there are also lots of good ones. This is the place where Gran first introduced me to Jane Austen's works. We used to read those books together, and we watched all the movies too. They are little things, but they mean a lot to me.

If I'm going to take charge of my life, I'm going to have to start making my own memories and contributing to the history of the house, preferably with people I care about. In this case, it's Eric.

Now, before you get any ideas, we're not really doing anything special; just hanging around in the house, really. Christmas is a time for family, and since I can't deal with more Jason-drama right now, the only family I have left are Eric, Hunter, and Remy, by extension. Tara's finally acknowledging that a certain warlock is actually important to her so they're spending Christmas Eve together in private. I suppose Pam's family too, but she has to keep an eye on the club, as Eric's arranged it so it's his night off. He says that on Christmas Eve, Fangtasia's full of 'sad fucks who don't have people to give two shits about them' and he hates it. Since he's boss, he can decide who's going to be on and who's going to be off that night. I think Pam lost to him at paper-scissors-rock or something like that. She wouldn't tell me.

Remy's taken Hunter to visit his paternal grandparents back in Minnesota —along with Trey Dawson, who's acting as their bodyguard; Remy insisted on going alone with Hunter and we finally managed to convince him to take one were guard with him— so it's just my vampire and me for tonight. There's going to be a Christmas party at Fangtasia tomorrow after they close early at midnight, so all the festive activities will take place then. Pam wanted the entire shebang, including a stuffed roasted turkey with cranberry sauce, Christmas puddings and a tree. I vetoed the turkey because I'm not eating a whole stuffed turkey by myself. Only a couple of human staff are invited, and most of them don't have much of an appetite around vampires. Eric vetoed the tree, although he did cave in to the demands for tinsel —that was both Pam and me— and a huge tiered chocolate cake —Tara and Pam's. I'm not going to say no to chocolate cake either.

Eric also vetoed 'Secret Santa' and carol singing. Pam is very disappointed.

Eric and I are both lounging on the couch; me with my legs across his lap and him with his feet on the coffee table. I've given up trying to teach him house manners. Besides, I've decided that I rather like his 'uncivilized' ways. It's part of who he is. Eric is not a domesticated man.

I'm reading _The Historian_ by Elizabeth Kostova —really excellent take on the Dracula legend— and he's reading _The Prince_ by Machiavelli. Occasionally, one of us will get up and make hot drinks. Well, I make drinks for both of us. Eric tried making hot chocolate once, but it was a royal failure, and we both agreed that he shouldn't do anything in the kitchen beyond microwaving his bottled blood and washing the dishes —not that he would _ever_ consider washing dishes. Somehow, he was under the impression that hot chocolate meant melted chocolate. Norma Jean had to get a new kettle and we almost had a fire.

It's such a tame scene that I wouldn't have bothered mentioning it if the wind didn't start howling suddenly, both outside and inside. Immediately, Eric is alert. He springs to his feet. I'm not far behind him. Barisan's put wards around the house, but there are much stronger things than the warlock out there, like other warlocks, for instance.

And faeries. Lots and lots of faeries.

Snow gathers in the air to form humanoid shapes. They solidify and develop features until they are real living and breathing people. Eric pushes me behind him. I peer out from behind his broad back. Unlike vampires, you don't need to invite a faerie into your house for them to be able to come in.

Although, you have to invite them inside a salt circle before they can cross that line, and there are salt circles around my properties, including the house in the Hamptons. Sometimes, you gotta love having a warlock around, even if they do get your best friend pregnant.

Eric opens the door and steps outside to confront them. Snow sticks to his hair and eyelashes.

The faeries walk right up to the salt circle and then they stop, unable to get past the invisible magic barrier.

I try to remember all the things that I've ever read or heard about faeries. Salt, for one, is said to keep them away. I wonder if I'm quick enough to get the salt shaker from the kitchen. Oh, and iron. Faeries don't like iron, and it's a confirmed fact. Human faerie hybrids don't have a problem with it because their human blood makes them immune to it, which is why my grandfather uses very distinctive iron faerie darts. Most of the time, he needs them to fight other faeries.

I don't have any iron darts. There is an iron pan somewhere in the house, but I'm not sure exactly which cupboard it's in. Oh, and my knives and forks are made out of stainless steel, which is an alloy with iron in it.

"What do you want?" Eric growls.

Instead of answering Eric, the faerie in the lead looks right past him and straight at me. He is an incredibly beautiful creature, with pale skin, perfect blond hair so light that it might as well have been white, and piercing blue eyes. His hands are long and slender, although they are somehow not effeminate. There are few lines on his face, and his ears are strangely pointed. Think elves from the _Lord of the Rings_, except not as nice, because I really wouldn't have minded having Legolas as a relative.

"Sookie, my dear," says the faerie. "At last, we meet. I would have come sooner, but circumstances wouldn't allow it."

"Who are you?" I ask as I try to keep my voice from shaking. I move closer to Eric. Even though I know I'm safe until I invite them inside the salt circle, they're still quite intimidating. How would you feel if you were surrounded by something like fifty perfect people?

"Fintan did not tell of me?" said the faerie in his accented English. "How curious, considering I am his father." _This_ is Niall Brigant, the prince of the Wind Fae?

Okay, it's not that farfetched.

"Then again," Niall continues, "seeing as you are in the company that vampire who encouraged my son to withdraw from his own family, I am not surprised you don't know anything about your own kin."

"Finn wanted to have nothing to do with you," Eric snaps. "He wanted no part of your pointless petty power struggles."

"He disappoints me immensely," says Niall. "But no matter. I have Sookie now. All is right with the world."

"Hang on a minute," I say. "What? I'm not going with you if that's what you're thinking."

"Sookie, we are family. You belong with us," says Niall.

"I belong here," I say, "and you're a blood-related stranger. Why should I go with you?"

"Give it up, Brigant," says Eric.

"You would purposefully keep my own great-granddaughter from me, vampire?" asks Niall. All pretences of cordiality are gone. He may be beautiful, but my great-grandfather is also very dangerous and powerful and unpredictable.

"I would do whatever it takes to ensure that she is not forced into doing anything she doesn't want to do."

"And you really won't come with me, Sookie?"

"Have you got a very good reason for me _to_ come with you? That family one won't float. Blood is important, but it's not everything."

"What can be more important than family?" Niall shakes his head. "I will leave you to think about it more clearly. Perhaps, in the light of day, without the vampire's influence, you will see things from a different perspective. You are a Brigant, Sookie. To carry the name of Brigant is to carry great responsibility. We all have our duties."

His words leave me uneasy. I rub my arms as he and his faeries disappear one by one into thin air. I don't know what he means. What does he mean by 'responsibility' and 'duty'. Surely he doesn't think I owe him anything just because I share DNA with him, right? I turn to Eric, hoping that he might have more answers for me. I have enough on my plate without family troubles coming in. And if Fintan's dad is here, then shouldn't Fintan be here as well? I think he'd be helpful. All that invisible ninja protector stuff is great, but sometimes, I need a parental figure, not an unseen bodyguard.

Eric puts his arm around my shoulders and ushers me inside the house before closing the door against the snow and the wind. He stokes up the fire. I'm still shivering, so he wraps a throw around my shoulders. He's clenching his teeth. He's angry and worried; I don't need to be able to read his mind to see that. "Eric, what did he mean?" I ask. "What does he want with me?"

"I can't be certain, but I think he wants you to be his heir," says Eric.

"Why me? I'm mostly human." I'm already sort-of royalty in my world. I don't want to be a princess in another world too.

"Sookie, are you fishing for compliments? You are strong, you are generous and kind. You are fair, and you have the courage to take risks. Those are just some of the things about you that make you special. If you want, I can go on."

"I wasn't really asking for compliments, but it's very sweet of you to stroke my ego."

He opens his mouth again, probably to tell me that there are other parts of me he wants to stroke —let's face it; Eric can be slightly predictable at times— but he thinks better of it and doesn't go down that path. I'm grateful. Even though I love him, there are just some things that I still don't feel comfortable doing, not even with the man I love. One day, I will be able to enjoy sex again but I still need time.

"So," I say. "Back to the question. Why me? Doesn't he have other descendants? What about Fintan, or his brother Dermot?"

"Dermot isn't king material, and Finn rejected the throne. He didn't want to rule or have anything to do with faerie politics. Or any politics, for that matter."

"But he's friends with you," I say.

"I wasn't always a politician, Sookie. There was a time when I also rejected all trappings of royalty. I still don't like the ceremonial aspects of my job, but I've come to realize that I can only control my own destiny if I have power."

There's a story in there. Actually, there are lots of stories about Eric's past that he hasn't told me. I've told him every single interesting thing that ever happened to me, including my disaster of a school prom which, in retrospect, wasn't really that disastrous. Sometimes, I wish I could be that naïve girl again, when the worst thing that could happen was that I'd get a zit on my nose on the day of school photos. That was before I realized that people were all too worried about their own zits to care much about mine.

"So what were you like back then?"

"Naïve, idealistic, stupid."

"I find it hard to believe that you were ever any of those things. Perhaps naïve and idealistic, but definitely not stupid."

"No? I think I did some stupid things."

"Tell me about said stupid things and let me be the judge."

Eric seems to be debating which 'stupid' incident he's going to tell me first when his phone rings. He listens, curses and then agrees to do something. When he hangs up, I look at him expectantly. It doesn't take a genius to realize that something huge has just happened.

"Seven vampires have been staked," he tells me. "The wood comes from a tree that can only be found in the Otherworld."

"What does that mean?" I ask.

"It means war," he says.

—

The entire vampire world is in an uproar. No, make that the entire supe world. There hasn't been such a great number of faeries in this dimension since the last Fae War, in which the faeries lost and had to retreat beyond the veil. Now they're back in force. The reason? Me.

Faeries are vengeful creatures, and they don't take offences against their own kind very well —which is natural, I suppose— especially not from vampires. If there is an offence against their kind, they have to pay it back tenfold _at least_. Felipe De Castro and Victor Madden must not have known much about faerie nature when they did what they did. De Castro was the lucky one; he was already dead. Rumour has it that my great grandfather is hunting down Victor Madden because Eric and Barisan didn't manage to get to him and he escaped with some help from necromancers in De Castro's pay.

As if things aren't complicated enough, I learn that necromancers are 'bad', whilst warlocks are 'good'. Of course, I only have a warlock's claims, but if necromancers will work for people like Madden and De Castro, then I can willingly believe that they're evil. However, not even necromancers would be able to protect Madden from vengeful faerie royalty. Faeries are near the top of the supe hierarchy for a reason.

Are you confused yet? I am.

After Niall's visit, Eric hurriedly takes me back home to the city. That's somewhere that's relatively safe from faeries, although, my vampire informed me that if goblins —distant relations of faeries— were to pass through the veil, they could bring NYC to its knees in days. It's not a comforting thought.

You don't really think of human civilization and its infrastructure as being so fragile. I guess we've just been separated from the supe world for too long. We forget the power of the supernaturals, who are not governed by the laws of science the way we are. We forget that we are _not_ the most advanced creatures in this universe. We became too comfortable in our superiority and too arrogant. We even think we can tame nature —well, until nature shows us otherwise time and time again. It only takes one storm or one earthquake to flatten an entire city that was built up over hundreds of years.

Still, life must go on, even in the fact of looming disaster. I'm not going to be like one of those people who hide in underground bunkers for ten years because they fear Armageddon or something. I might die any moment, so I might as well make good use of what time I have left.

Eric and I discuss the situation until dawn. By the word 'discuss', I mean that I bombard him with questions and he does his best to try and answer them. He suspects that like Fintan, I might be pressured into marrying some ally or another for Niall's political gain. And I, like Fintan, am likely to reject such a marriage. No, not just likely. I will _most definitely_ reject it if my great-grandfather ever tries to make me marry someone I've never even met for politics or any other purpose. I will never marry for anything less than love. If there is love and politics involved in the marriage, then fine, I can live with it, but politics on its own is just repulsive.

I ask him about the history of the last Fae War, in which the vampires —a lesser race, according to the supe hierarchy— defeated the faeries. He tells me that there was a frenzy of 'vampire-creation' and the weres also sided with the vampires, who they saw as being the lesser of two evils. Plus, the faeries were fighting one another as well. There were also warlocks and necromancers involved. Basically, it seems that every other supe species hated faeries and banded together to fight them. Brilliant. I'm public enemy number one, or at least related to public enemy number one. As if my life is not messed up enough.

"I wasn't really involved," he says. "None of us were. Godric despised all the politics, and Finn, Barisan and me were too busy escaping from the faeries who were after Finn. We did, inevitably, get caught up in a couple of skirmishes. It was a bloody century, the thirteenth. Dying humans from the plague provided fodder for new vampires. Everyone was too frightened of the plague to notice missing people, and if they did, they just thought that disease had claimed them. The plague itself was a symptom of the war."

"You mean someone created the first prototype biological weapon?" I joke.

"That's exactly what happened," says Eric in all seriousness. I lose the smile. It's not funny at all.

—

In previous years, I spent my Christmas mornings with Gran and Tara. We'd open the presents under the fibre-optics Christmas tree and then watch Christmas movies whilst eating desserts all day unless there's a gala that needs attending. Gran's gone now, and Tara is probably still talking out her problems with her warlock. Eric can't spend Christmas Day with me for obvious reasons, so I'm alone with the fibre-optics tree and the lemon-meringue pie. There are a couple of presents beneath the tree. Tara intended to join me before she and Barisan decided to have their reconciliation. I put Hunter and Remy's presents under the tree for them to open when they get back.

I go into the spare room where the air-conditioned wardrobe slash vampire hideout is. The door of the closet is closed and locked. I lean against it. "Happy Winter Solstice," I murmur to the closed door. I like to think that he can hear me even when he's 'asleep'.

I wander into the living room. The apartment is totally empty. All my staff get to spend Christmas Day with their family. Jason's out with his girlfriend Amelia —I think he's getting quite serious about her, and it's great because she seems to be good for him, as far as I know. Granted, I haven't talked to Jason for a while because I'm dealing with so much in my life that I don't think I'd be able to handle his disapproval for my relationship with Eric.

I sit on the couch and stare at the fibre optics Christmas tree for a while. Its plastic branches glimmer with all the colours of the rainbow. It's pretty in a sterile and lifeless way and it doesn't do much to cheer me up. Lethargy creeps over me, and I consider going back to sleep again. Then I frown.

There is a package underneath the tree that I don't recognize and I don't remember seeing it last night. It's wrapped in the most beautiful woven silk and the only thing on the card is my name. I'm curious. Did Eric leave it there? I thought he was going to give me my present later —I'm going to give him his present tonight; an even older edition of Sun Tzu's _Art of War_ than the copy he has in his office. Some poor scribe actually copied it word by word onto some of the most beautiful paper I have ever seen. No amount of money can buy you this sort of paper these days. The art of making it has been lost.

I pick up the bundle. It is quite heavy and it's irregularly shaped, although if I had to say what shape it is, I'd say it's round-ish. It's also rather hard and solid. Maybe…just a peek?

The sheet of silk unravels as if it _knows_ that I'm curious about what's inside. Two things fall out of the package. One of them, a zip-lock bag of greyish powder, lands next to my feet and the other hits the floor with a dull 'thunk'. It rolls awkwardly for a couple of feet before it stops.

Lifeless purple eyes with the lids cut off stare at me from a severed head.

—

Oh shit. Oh shit shit shit shit shit. He needs a new curse word. _Merde_. No, that's 'shit' in French. "Eric wouldn't do this," Barisan says. "He's not the most sensitive of people, but he's not_ that_ insensitive." Not insensitive enough to give his already-traumatized girlfriend her sort-of ex's severed head for a Christmas gift, anyway. For all his claims that he doesn't know what it means to have emotions, Eric's really a very considerate and thoughtful man. This has 'faerie' written all over it. And it's not Finn because _Finn_ would never do anything so insensitive either.

It took him a while to figure what Sookie was saying when she gave him that phone call just as he was about to tell Tara his _real_ reason for staying in New York —no, he isn't staying for Sookie, Tara _or _the baby— for the time being. After he heard the words 'Quinn' and 'head', he decided it would be most prudent to not let Tara come, in case the scene traumatized her. And he was right.

When he first entered the apartment, he saw Sookie still standing there, clutching her phone as if it was her lifeline and hyperventilating as she stared at the perfectly preserved severed head on her carpet. He did the only thing any human would do and pulled her into a tight hug.

He wishes there's something more he can do for her, but short of wiping her memory, he has no

clue. The person she really needs is Eric who, unfortunately, is 'dead' in the closet, and there's still a wee while until he wakes up. _Merde_.

He holds her and rocks her as if she is a little child. Compared to him, she _is_ a little child; a child who has suffered undeservedly. He feels responsible. He should have been

"Then who would do it?" gasps Sookie in between her hiccups. Her thoughts are jumbled and confused. She's terrified, she feels sick, and she has every right to feel that way. He remembers seeing his first severed head, and it's impressive that she hasn't thrown up the contents of her stomach.

"Faeries," says Barisan. "I think your kin thought you would…err…appreciate the fact that your betrayers and attackers are dead."

"Who would want a severed head under their Christmas tree?"

"Faeries. They're still stuck in the Middle Ages, and there was also a bag of finally dead vampire in that bundle. Victor Madden, I believe it was."

"This is fucking crazy! What are we going to do?"

"Erm…clean up and then have some spiked hot chocolate?"

—

Barisan has settled me in the kitchen with a cup of camomile tea whilst he cleans up the mess outside. I'm still shaking and very grateful that there is another person here with me. I know Eric's technically here, but it's only ten in the morning and he won't be awake for another seven hours at least. The warmth of the cup offers me some comfort. My fingers are wrapped around it so tightly that my knuckles are white. I force myself to take slow steady sips. Camomile is supposed to sooth the nerves. I guess I need something a little stronger. My eyes stray to the liquor cabinet. But no, I can't. It's taken me a while to stop relying on the alcohol. But what harm can a few drops of rum do? It'll probably send me spiralling down into dependence again; that's what it'll do. But I want that pungent smell filling my nostrils, that heat as the liquor slides down my throat, that warmth spreading from my stomach, that—

Get a grip on yourself, Sookie. You need to be strong. Stronger than all the fucked up stuff that life's gonna throw at you.

I resist the urge to add rum to my tea. I might need a shrink, though, except once again, what shrink will I be able to talk to about finding the severed head of a guy I once dated under my Christmas tree? That is, without bringing the FBI into it.

"I've bagged the evidence," says Barisan, coming into the kitchen and going straight for the liquor cabinet. "Your living room is pristine. I might have taken the liberty of helping myself to your lemon meringue pie."

"What do you mean you 'bagged' the evidence —and take your hands off that cognac, thanks. It's mine."

"Everything in this cabinet is yours, right down to the cooking sherry, and yes, I bagged the evidence, which means I put everything in a sterile plastic bag because one, we might be able to gain more clues through a closer examination of the items involved and two, Eric will want to see them when he wakes. We've been hunting for those two for seven months and somehow they've managed to elude us. Now we can call off the hunt."

"You've been _hunting_ them?" I know Eric and Barisan aren't modern men, as in they're likely to take matters into their own hands, especially when it comes to revenge, but Quinn, for all his faults, did what he did out of desperation and poor judgement. I might have hated his pants and I might not be able to forgive him for what he did to me, ever, but he didn't really deserve to die. I didn't deserve to find his severed head under my tree either. Victor is another matter entirely, and a bag of ash is decidedly less traumatizing than a head.

"Well, of course," says the warlock as he opens the bottle of cognac anyway and pours himself an unhealthily large glass. "Neither of us have ever turned the other cheek. It may be a little un-Christian, but that's the way I roll and Eric was never a Christian in the first place."

—

"From the lack of blood in the head, I would say that he was already dead before he was beheaded," says Barisan.

"I thought you were a doctor of history, not forensic science," says Eric. It's a little unnerving that they can be so calm about a severed head, especially a severed head of someone they know, but I guess those two are used to it. I mean, one's a Viking and one's a crusader. They're used to chopping off people's heads. I'm just glad I'm not in the same room —I'm eavesdropping, so sue me— because it would be even freakier to watch the crusader poke at the magically preserved head. How else would he know that there's a lack of blood.

"I also have a degree in archaeology, don't forget, and I watch CSI," I hear Barisan retort.

"Urgh," Tara mutters. She finally won the fight and Barisan had to let her come up. She didn't get to see the head —both Eric and the warlock were careful to keep it out of her sight because it would be 'bad for the baby'. "He's addicted to those shows, and I just keep on getting jealous of those girls' waistlines."

She might miss her old waistline, but Tara loves that baby already, whether she knows it or not. I know because I can read her mind. She's terrified that she might repeat her mother's mistakes, which convinces me that she won't. My friend is going to be a great mother.

At seven months, she's blooming. Sure, she's a little rounder, and her face is a little chubbier, but this new softness simply makes her beautiful in a different way. She's no longer Thorny Tara. Well, not all the time, anyway.

"And the baby's kicking again," she complains. "What's he doing? Playing football? I hate football."

"Maybe he's a fighter like his dad."

"Hah! His daddy likes to use all those dirty unscientific tricks." She takes my hand and puts it on her rounded tummy. The little kicks feel like the wings of a fluttering butterfly against my hand, and I can hear the most basic whispers of coherent thought. It is soothing. The baby is calm, content, safe. He knows nothing of the evils that plague this world, nor of the dangers that he will face when he enters it. "Hey, Sookie. I have something I wanna ask you, but I'm not sure if this is the right time or not."

"Tara, you can ask me anything. We're sisters in everything but blood."

"Will you be the tyke's godmother? Cos…you know, I can't do this on my own, his daddy won't be able to be here because of his order's stupid laws. He needs someone who…understands."

I pull my friend into a hug. Her emotions are all over the place. She's frightened, excited, sad. Her warlock is going to have to leave her soon, and even though she says that there are no strings in their relationship, she cares for him deeply and somewhere inside her, she worries about him. "Of course I'll be his godmother," I say.

—

"Do we _have_ to go to Illinois?" I ask. We are in Eric's office. I went to him as soon as I received a phone call telling me to go to a small town in Illinois for an important vampire summit. I thought there was something off about the phone call. Why should they call _me_? I'm a human and I don't take part in vampire politics. At least, not willingly. The last time I was dragged into it, it did not end well for me. I have no desire to repeat such an experience. I don't feel safe leaving Eric's principality. Hell, sometimes I feel unsafe when getting into my own elevator.

"Sookie, the Ancient Pythoness personally gave _you_ a phone call," says Eric patiently. "I only found out about the summit through public notices sent to every monarch by the Authority. She wouldn't have done it if she did not feel that your presence was absolutely necessary. You know your great grandfather is attending this summit with his faeries."

Yet another reason not to go. After our last run in with one another, I don't really want to see him again. I know I should be a little more enthusiastic about my family, but I cannot deny that I don't like Niall very much. I don't like the way he treated Eric and his insinuations that Eric is somehow controlling me. And what sort of family would leave your sort-of ex's head under your Christmas tree?

"I think they are trying to diffuse the situation," Eric continues. "No one wants war with the Fae, especially not with the Brigants. Last time, they weren't involved. If they had taken part, I have no doubt the outcome would have been very different."

"Are they really so powerful?"

"Yes, they are," says Eric. "They are greatly feared and respected in the supernatural world and even amongst their own kind. The only other faeries who are feared just as much are the House of Morcant. They are enemies of the Brigants and they are the ones who have been hunting Finn through the centuries." His eyes darken and, for a moment, he seems vulnerable and afraid. I feel that there's something he's not telling me.

"Eric?" I say. "What's wrong?"

"It is nothing," he says.

"Eric." I give him my best 'yeah right' look.

"It is in the past, and some things ought to remain in the past."

"More often than not, the past serves as a lesson for the future."

"The only thing I learned was that I am not invincible and that I need good friends."

If it taught Eric that he wasn't invincible, then it must be quite something. To be honest, I've always thought of Eric as being next to indestructible, even though it makes no sense because I have seen his vulnerable side. His biggest vulnerability is me. However, he won't talk about it if he doesn't want to talk about it. I trust that he'll tell me anything that he deems pertinent.

"So we _must_ go to Illinois?" I say, going back to the original subject.

"I'm afraid so," he says, with much regret. "I don't like the danger that's involved, but it's the Ancient Pythoness' orders. I can't defy her. Neither can you."

"Who is she, this 'Ancient Pythoness'?" I ask. I have an image of a snake in my head; a lazy sleepy one who lives in the reptile house, in fact.

"She is the oracle at Siwa who advised Alexander the Great," says Eric. My jaw drops. That was _real_? Well, I shouldn't be surprised. I mean, if there are faeries and vampires and God knows what else out there, then why shouldn't there be oracles? "Some say she is a daughter of a god. Others say she is a faerie who sought to conquer the night. Some say that she is the incarnation of the Mother Goddess. There are many legends. Perhaps all of them are true; perhaps none of them are. She neither confirms nor denies them. The only thing that is certain is that she _can_ see the future and her power is great. The fact that she is here to chair the summit means that the world as we know it is about to change."

"Oh Lord," I whisper. I feel sick. There is a lump in my stomach. "Eric, I'm scared. I don't know what will happen." My world has become a house of cards. A little bit of wind will make all of it fall down around me.

Eric holds me close. I lean into his chest, breathing in his comforting and familiar scent. I don't want to lose him, but the more I learn about the Brigants, the more I fear that's exactly what's going to happen. My great grandfather wants me, and I don't think he'll let anything stop him from getting what he wants. He just doesn't sound like that kind of person.

Eric kisses me on the top of my head. "I swear, we will get through this, Sookie," he says. "I won't let anything happen to you."

"I know," I whisper and I close my eyes, just relishing the feeling of being safe in his arms. We haven't had sex ever since Nevada. I'm not quite ready yet, and he has not even indicated that he's getting impatient. We stay like this for a long time until Pam barges in.

"There's someone here to see you, Eric," she says.

"Can't you see I'm busy? Get him to leave his name and I'll get back to him."

"He refuses to give his name and he says you will most definitely see him," says Pam. "He's got important business, apparently."

"Fine," says Eric. "Send him in." He releases me and I try my best to pull myself together. It's a good thing I'm not wearing mascara. I perch on the edge of his new sofa whilst he settles himself in his 'mafia boss' chair. Pam returns a minute later with a man in tow. Well, I use the word 'man' in a very loose sense.

Eric drops all pretences of being an arrogant vampire prince who doesn't give a damn about anything —well, it's hardly a pretence, per se— and leaps to his feet.

"Fintan Brigant, you elusive bastard!" he roars as he launches himself at my grandfather and embraces him like a long lost brother.

"And it's nice to see you too, you barbaric Norse man," says Fintan with a laugh.

"What made you finally decide to show yourself?" demands Eric when he finally lets go of Fintan.

"There's no point in hiding myself anymore if my father's found my family, is there?" asks my grandfather. He turns his attention from Eric to me. I give him a shaky smile. I don't know what to think of my grandfather. I mean, I don't really know him except from the few stories that Barisan and Eric told me. I've seen one picture of him and I have his DNA. "Sookie," he says. "I suppose you already know who I am." There's no mistaking it. That light blond hair, those ancient eyes in the youthful face that looks so much like my brother's and my dad's. He is not intimidating like Eric or a one-man show like Barisan, but there is something about him that commands attention. He must have a special something to inspire such loyalty in both Eric and Barisan.

"You're my grandfather," I say.

"I haven't been a very good one. I'm sorry." I've always thought of Fintan as being some omnipotent and omnipresent faerie ninja guardian angel, but now that he's standing right before me, he seems strangely human. And like a human, he is not infallible; definitely not omnipotent. And he cares for me. A lot. I can feel it.

What else is there for me to do except to hug him?


	21. As Wings Blot Out the Sun

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. It belongs to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball. Barisan is mine, however.

**Chapter 21: As Wings Blot Out the Sun**

We go back to my place. There is a lot of catching up to do. Eric wants to know what Fintan's been doing with his life. I want to know more about my grandfather and Fintan wants to know about Gran and me and Jason and Hunter and Hadley and everyone else. He swells with pride as he takes in the sight of the building that Jason and I co-own. "Adele talked about buying this for a while," he tells me inside the elevator. "She discussed all her plans with me. I guess she finally went ahead and did it after her brother resigned."

"How do you know about Bartlett?" I ask.

"I may not be omnipresent, but I do keep an eye on things from afar," says Fintan. "And I wanted to kill Bartlett Hale ten times over for what he did, but Adele wouldn't have wanted me to do it. She always put me on a pedestal. I'm not half as good as she thought I was."

"You really loved her, didn't you?" I ask.

"Oh yes," he whispers. "I've never loved anyone the way I love your grandmother…loved…love…" He shakes his head. "I failed her in the end."

"Like you said, you're not omnipresent," I say. Conversation comes naturally. It's so easy to talk to Fintan. We arrive at my penthouse. Only Norma Jean is there, and she is wondering who the stranger is, but like all good help, she doesn't ask questions. She does give Eric a pointed look before scurrying away. My housekeeper isn't fond of vampires, but she's going to keep her dislike to herself. She thinks I should be with the 'handsome young man' downstairs because he's too good for Tara. Norma Jean is not a fan of interracial relationships.

Hmm…I might have to rethink having her as my housekeeper. How come I never caught onto her discriminatory sentiments?

Fintan examines the photographs of my family for a long time, lingering on the ones of my dad and Aunt Linda as children with Gran and Grandpa Stackhouse. It must be awkward for him, knowing that another man married the woman he loved and unknowingly raised his children. Wait…Aunt Linda was Fintan's daughter, which means the affair continued _after_ my dad was born. When did it stop? Did Grandpa Stackhouse know?

"Earl knew that the children weren't his flesh and blood," says Fintan, as if he can read my mind. Hell, maybe he can. He's much more powerful than Barisan, according to both Eric and the warlock. "He couldn't have children, but he didn't care that they weren't his. He loved them anyway. Earl Stackhouse was your grandfather in every sense of the word. It is a pity he did not live long enough for you to meet him."

"Gran told me lots of stories about him, but I think she was always in love with you," I say.

"Yes, she was. It pained me to leave her and the children, but I had no choice. I couldn't let my kin find you." He turns to Eric and me. "And look how well my plan turned out."

"It might have turned out differently if you had let us in on it," says Eric. He puts his phone back in his pocket. "Barisan's on his way."

As if on cue, there's a clap and a flash of green light as a warlock appears in the middle of my living room. Do warlock houses even need doors? Or do they even have houses? "I don't know whether I should kill you or kiss you," says the warlock to my grandfather after he releases him from his embrace. "Or both."

With Fintan here, the dynamic changes. I am suddenly more hopeful and I don't feel as alone. All right, I was never alone in the first place, but sometimes it just feels that way. Every orphan gets a little bit lonely, and I was an orphan in every sense of the word. Now I have a grandfather. A very _cool_ grandfather. I also have a great…um…boyfriend? Boyfriend doesn't seem to be the right word to use for a thousand year old vampire, and 'lover' is Eric's word. It just doesn't sound right on my tongue.

We're going to Illinois together, the four of us. Pam is going too, as is Chow. Eric needs a big entourage. The only vampire in his inner circle who is staying behind is Godric. I suppose we have very little to worry about. I'm sure Godric knows how to take care of a city state for a couple of days; a week, at the most.

Yes, it's only a week, but I've packed three suitcases. A girl needs a couple of options when travelling, and who knows how many items those vamps are going to ruin? I have a feeling it won't be all hunky dory. For one, Sophie Ann's going to be there, and Hadley's likely to be there too. Then there are all the other monarchs who probably all want their own personal telepath.

Tara advised me on what to pack, including three pairs of Jimmy Choos with wooden heels, in case I need to stake someone in an emergency. You never know. I don't take too many designer items, opting for high street clothing instead. That way, if it does get ruined, I won't feel so bad about it. Designer clothes are works of art and should not be mistreated. At any rate, wearing affordable clothing doesn't mean I have to look any less fabulous. In fact, I have to look as fabulous as possible because I cannot show a single weakness in front of my family or the vampires.

"You are always fabulous, Sookie," says Eric as he uses his immense mass to help me close my suitcase. I love a helpful man who is ready to aid a damsel in distress.

"Well, of course, but I have to be even more fabulous than usual," I pant as I zip my suitcase closed. Pam would approve of what I've chosen. And I think she would approve of the sheer volume of clothing too. What I can't get in quality, I'm getting in quantity. Besides, one can never have too many pairs of shoes. My Croc rain boots, as comfortable and practical as they are, are not formal wear and cannot compare to a pair of well-made Louboutins.

No matter how afraid or worried or stressed out I am, I would never _ever_ wear cheap shoes. Wearing cheap shoes would only exacerbate the problem as that would give me sore feet. At least, that's my philosophy and I'm sticking with it. There's also a tactical reason for wearing Louboutins, especially the spiked ones. I had them customized so that the spikes are now silver-plated, for obvious reasons. I've started on self-defence training, but such skills take a long time to learn. Eric's fighting techniques, although brilliant, are not well-suited to me. For one, I don't have vampire speed and strength and secondly, the guy is six four. I'm five six on a good day.

Clearly, I did not inherit the height gene from the faerie side of the family. I guess I take after Gran.

We are flying by private jet to Illinois. There are perks when you are dating the Prince of New York City —not that I can't afford a private jet even if I weren't dating Eric, but I wouldn't have had my own plane because of all the carbon emissions. However, since there are a couple of people flying with Eric and me, I don't feel so guilty about it.

The location of the summit is a sleepy city called Rhodes, located about four hours drive from Chicago. It looks as if nothing ever happens here —so subsequently, it always hosts supernatural summits without the knowledge of the humans living here. There is a limo waiting for us on the tarmac. This time, no one tries to kidnap me. Is it sad that _not_ being kidnapped is now like a novelty for me?

The house where the meeting is to take place is located near the outskirts of the city, where suburbs slowly melt away into farmland. Actually, it's more a mansion than a house. The building itself dates from the Civil War era, and looks as if it could be a filming location for _Gone With the Wind_. We drive up a long drive through the sprawling estate. It takes five minutes to get from the front gate to the house itself. Every single window is well-lit.

The limo stops before the steps leading up to the front door. Ten porters file out and methodically start taking the luggage out of the trunk before we even get out of the car. I feel like Scarlett O'Hara, except Scarlett never caused a war. All right, maybe I'm more like Helen of Sparta, except I doubt my face would launch a thousand ships. Perhaps I can launch one dinghy; that's about it. There is a woman waiting to greet us. Her olive skin retains traces of a tan from her human life, and her black hair is coiled tightly on the top of her head. She's a vampire, but she has an air of serenity that I haven't seen in anyone else save for Godric.

"Welcome to Sanctuary, Your Grace," she says. She dips a curtsey in deference to Eric.

"I thank you, Lady Settareh," says Eric as nods in acknowledgement. He must be higher in rank than she is, but she must also be very important if he calls her 'Lady'. Vampires, I deem, are extremely archaic creatures to cling to such titles. Then again, Eric _is_ over one thousand years old. "Please pass on my thanks to the Ancient Pythoness for so graciously hosting us." It's very formal, and I think that's the standard thing to say.

"Of course," says Lady Settareh. She turns her attention to Fintan and Barisan and gives them both a curtsey just as deep as the one she gave Eric. "Milords."

My grandfather and the warlock bow back. "It has been a while, Lady Settareh," says Barisan. "I was afraid you might have forgotten me."

"How can I forget the Frank who saved me from a desert _djinn_?" she asks. Then she finally turns to me. "And you must be Lady Sookie."

"Just Sookie, thanks," I say awkwardly. "I'm not a lady."

"You are a princess, and you must be treated accordingly," she says, not unkindly. I feel I have much to learn. The world I once existed in didn't have royalty per se. At least, not official royalty, unless they're English. Since I'm not English, I've never worried about things such as titles. Now I am actually royalty in name as well as in truth. It changes everything. "Come, allow me to show you to your accommodations."

She leads us not upstairs, but down. The mansion itself is impressive, but the series of underground tunnels and chambers is even more so. It's like a cave network. Some of the great rooms I passed were actually natural caves, with stalactites hanging down from the ceiling. Minerals embedded in the rocks glittered like a thousand diamonds. It is an incredibly beautiful and magical place.

Our rooms are circular, with rock walls that are somehow warm to the touch. There are six bedrooms with ensuites, two sitting rooms, and a private study. The hot water comes from a heated underground spring and is filled with dissolved minerals. It's like a health spa retreat with supe politics involved. I don't know how relaxing it will be but hell, I'll make the most of my stay here. There is no hotel in the world that is this luxurious. I should know.

"I don't believe it!" I say once Settareh has left us. "This is like magic!" The rest of them, my grandfather included, looks at me with amusement. I guess it's not just like magic; it _is_ magic.

—

The conferences take place in cavernous chamber —I use the word 'cavernous' very specifically because the conference chamber _is_ a cave. A chandelier is suspended from the tall domed roof. Our voices echo in the vast space. Torches of blue fire are mounted in sconces at regular intervals along the wall. The floor of the cave is covered with fine white sand. All the different delegations are seated around the room. Directly opposite the entrance is a raised dais of flat slate upon which there is a golden throne. Metallic snakes are entwined around the arms and the back of the throne, and the footrest is in the form of a slumbering jackal. A white silken banner with red and gold trimmings hangs behind the throne. Upon it is a reptilian eye with a slit pupil drawn in black.

"The all-seeing eye of the Ancient Pythoness," Pam whispers.

I see the delegation of faeries sitting directly opposite from where we are sitting. Niall stares at me continuously, not even blinking. I try my best to ignore him, but it's difficult. His gaze is so piercing. It's as if he's trying to drill his own thoughts into my head. I wonder if he can read my mind. Is telepathy inherited, or is my 'gift' a mutation?

Fintan is staying hidden again. He doesn't want to alert his father to his presence. I have a hard time thinking of Niall as family. There's just something about him that I don't trust. I glance at Eric. He covers my hand with his own.

Suddenly, everyone stands. Well, except Niall, who remains seated. Settareh enters, and she is supporting a blind old woman who needs to navigate her way with a walking stick. _This_ is the Ancient Pythoness? Never mind the all-seeing eye; I doubt her eyes can see anything at all. A rheumy film covers them. Her skin is so wrinkled that it looks like the bark of an ancient tree and her back is almost bent double.

Settareh helps her onto the golden throne; it is a strange juxtaposition. I am having difficulty understanding the fearful reverence and awe emanating from just about everyone in the room. The Ancient Pythoness murmurs something to Settareh. I suppose she is the Pythoness' spokeswoman, as the oracle herself looks as if she barely has the strength to breathe, let alone speak. "The Ancient Pythoness bids that you all be seated," she announces.

Then I'm surprised. "Now that you are all assembled," says the Pythoness in a surprisingly strong voice, "I suppose you want to know why. Prince Niall, enlighten us."

Finally, Niall stands. His presence takes up the entire room. It's difficult not to feel threatened by an ancient luminescent faerie who's over six feet tall. My hands tighten around the arms of my chair and my knuckles turn white as my great-grandfather begins to speak.

—

"There must be restitution!"

That is the end of Niall's speech. I find myself trying to concentrate on my breathing. My shoulders are shaking. My entire body is shaking. His words have chilled me to the bone. Felipe De Castro, Victor Madden and John Quinn might be dead, but Niall does not think it is enough. He wants to hold more people to account. From his perspective, this is an offence by the race of vampires against the Fae. He has some nerve, saying all of this at a vampire summit.

"However," Niall adds, "I am willing to compromise. I shall let the matter go if my heir is returned to me." His eyes bore into me. Either he wanted me to see what he's thinking about, or something has enhanced my powers, because I suddenly see a vision. He is imagining me 'mated' to a faerie and bringing forth lots of young faeries like a queen ant. Is that my purpose? To be some fucking supernatural baby machine? Fat chance of that ever happening.

"We could kill you now, faerie, and be done with it," says the King of Texas, an ancient vampire called Russell Edgington. Rumour has it that he was a druid in his human life.

"You of all people should know that you can't, Edgington," says Niall with a smile. "I am Fae, and I would be gone before you can touch me. I cannot guarantee that the portal filters will last much longer if we do not…reinforce them."

The portal refers to the door in the veil between the two worlds; the one in which we live and the one in which the fae live. None of us knows what lies beyond the veil. I've heard about goblins and the like, but it's entirely possible that there are also dragons and trolls. I don't think anyone is well-equipped enough to deal with a flock of dragons.

What is the collective noun for a great number of dragons anyway?

"Well?" says Niall.

"I think you might have forgotten something, Brigant," Eric says. "Sookie hasn't said that she is willing to go with you."

"If you are going to stop her from fulfilling her duties as my heir, vampire, I will end you."

"Not so quickly, Niall," says Fintan as he steps out of the shadows. He's wearing iron chainmail. I guess that's why Niall wasn't able to sense him. Iron blocks pure faerie magic.

"My prodigal son," says Niall. "So you finally show your face."

"Only to tell you to back off, Father," says Fintan. "You have no claim on Sookie. If anyone has claim on her, then it's me, her grandfather, and her mate, whoever that might be."

"She has no mate," says Niall. "It is high time that she was mated. She is old enough." Mated? I'm not some animal. Well, I am, but I am a _sentient_ animal. Reproduction is not my sole purpose.

"It is her choice," says Fintan.

They are all staring at me, waiting for me to make a decision.

"I…I need to think," I say. I need to think of a way to get Niall to back off. I'm not actually considering his offer of becoming a reproductive machine.

"Two days, child," says Niall. "You have two days to think. On the third day, I will expect your answer." He and his faeries disappear in a flash of white light. The vampires are stunned, but not for long.

"Give up the human, Northman," says the Queen of Alaska. "She is not worth a war with the Fae."

"The Fae have no right to take a vampire's human if the human does not wish to go with them," argues another vampire. "I say we fight."

"Yes, and you will die," snaps the Queen. They squabble and argue and hiss as if I'm not there. I feel pressure growing. Whether war breaks out or not all falls to me. I can prevent the entire world from plunging into the largest conflict since the Second World War. But…let's face it. I'm human. I have selfish desires, and I don't want to sacrifice myself. My friends, of course, are not going to make me do anything I don't want to do.

Eric adamantly refuses to give me up and threatens to rip off the head of any vampire who mentions it ever again. About seventy of them wash their hands of our troubles after that and leave to go back to their own territories to prepare their defences.

The Ancient Pythoness dismisses the remaining vampires, telling them to reconvene in two days to discuss our plan of action. We all bow as she rises from her throne. As she passes our party, she looks directly at Eric and me. "When the day and the night come together, it is the end of the world as we know it," she says.

—

He wants to kill something. Someone. Preferably a faerie. Yes, his best friend's father. "Do you really need to consider it, Sookie?" he demands. "I thought…" He thought she loved him. Loves him.

"Of course I'm not considering the offer, Eric," she says. "But I am considering how we're going to deal with this." She cups his face with her soft hand. "I'm not leaving you," she whispers.

He holds her close, breathing in her scent deeply. If only she knew how much she meant to him, how much he feared losing her, how much he…

He wishes he could say it. Somehow, he can't manage it. The entire state of being in love was unnatural to him. He doesn't know what the word really means. He just knows that he's feeling something immensely powerful and that if anyone tried to take his Sookie from him, he would fight to the death to keep her. Unless she didn't want him anymore, that was, then he would let her go. It would kill him to do so.

Instead, he kisses her. Softly at first, and then more urgently. He needs her to be part of him and he needs to be part of her. Her body responds to his touch. She is still afraid. He breaks off the kiss. She gazes up at him with those wide blue eyes.

He suddenly has an idea. "Sookie," he says. "Will you be my blood-bonded?"

"Eric, I…" She begins to panic. "I don't think I'm ready for this. I mean, I…"

"It's not ideal, I know," he says, "but hear me out, I beg you, before you answer. Blood bonds are universally recognized in the supe world. It is illegal to take a bonded human away from the supe he or she has been bonded to."

"Other supes can bond as well?"

"It is less convenient for them, but yes, it is possible. If I bond with you, Niall cannot take you; not without killing me."

"Eric, he would do that. I don't want to put you in danger."

"I've survived worse than Niall Brigant, and it's a risk I'm willing to take."

—

"Are you sure it will work out the way you think it will?" I ask. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how stupid the question is.

"There are no certainties in life, my Sookie," says Eric with a mischievous grin. "That's what makes it interesting."

I feel as if my heart is in my mouth. This is it. The time for pussyfooting is over. I don't know if I'm ready but I don't have the luxury of doubt. I have to choose, and I have to choose now. I nod. "Yes, Eric," I whisper. "Yes."

His expression is unreadable as he sweeps me into his arms and carries me to the bed. Gently, he lays me down on it as if I'm made out of spun marzipan. I will not deny that I feel nervous. The fears are still there, but I push them away and place all my trust in the man straddling me. He buries his face in my hair and inhales deeply, as if he is drawing me inside him. I feel his fangs lightly scrape my bare shoulders. His hands find their way under my dress. He pulls the garment over my head and tosses it onto the floor. My hands are fumbling with his buttons. He helps me by simply tearing off the shirt.

My bra and panties disappear…somehow. I swear, Eric is a sorcerer in his own right. I feel his hardness pressed against my thigh. An unwelcome thought comes unbidden to me. Another time, another man…

He must have known, because he bends down to kiss me deeply and passionately. There is nothing harsh about him tonight. His kiss reminds me that he is not _that_ vampire, nor will he ever be. He still finds me beautiful, even after everything that has happened.

My tears flow as he enters me. The feelings that I've been keeping bottled up inside me all pour out, along with relief as I acknowledge what happened and more importantly, that I survived. I wrap my legs around his hips and arch my back so that my body is pressed up against him. We mould together perfectly, as if we were made for one another.

Our union is more than just physical. As his blood floods my mouth, his fangs sink into my neck. We are joined by an electrical current of passion running through the two of us. I feel him and he feels me. I see lights in my vision. The very ground itself seems to shiver with our passion and desire. White light surrounds us. Sounds become clearer to my ears. Eric's musky dry scent fills my nostrils. I become a bundle of primal instinct and emotion. Rational thought no longer occupies my mind. My tears are tears of pain and relief. I had forgotten how it felt to open myself up so completely to another person.

Eric feels what I am feeling. Our connection, at that moment, is so intense that I find myself falling into his mind again. It doesn't matter that his thoughts are in a foreign language. Some things are not expressed by words alone. He wants to give me safety, comfort, protection. He would do anything for me. '_I love you_. _I wish I knew how to say it._'

We both cry out at the same time as we reach our release. The ground shudders, and then all is still as Eric collapses on top of me. I swear, if he were human, he'd be sweating. I like the feel of his weight on top of me. I don't really know why; I guess it just makes me feel safe and content knowing that he is really there and that it's not just a dream.

He rests his head on my chest and traces the curve of one breast with a finger. I keep stroking his hair. "I heard you, you know," I murmur.

"What did you hear from me?" he asks as he lifts his head off me and gazes down at me. His hands continue their languid movements. Instead of answering, because words are not my forte at the moment, I kiss him. That will do well enough for an answer. At least, until I can come up with a better one. We simply lie there, our bodies entwined, enjoying the calm before the storm.

Well, we would have enjoyed it if a warlock who doesn't know the meaning of 'privacy' didn't suddenly barge into the room. "Did you feel the earthquake?" he asks.

"What earthquake?" Eric snaps as I scramble to cover myself. He might have seen many naked women, but I don't intend to let Barisan see more of me than he needs to.

"That—Oh, it was _you_. It measured five point eight on the Richter scale and the magic it released was incredible. Sexual energy is very powerful, but you already know that, Eric. The last time anything like this happened was when my father finally fucked my stepmother and the earthquake only measured three point one. That was after ten years of waiting for one another."

Barisan knows exactly how to say the wrong thing at the right time. In a split second, Eric throws him out of the room and slams the door in his face. "I don't know why he never learns," says the Viking. "It's not as if this is the first time I've had to throw him out."

An _earthquake_? That puts a whole new meaning to the term 'safe sex'.

—

He can't believe it. How can it be possible? He felt the raw primal power being released when the earth shook. The entire balance of magic was upset by the shockwaves that emanated from that epicentre. It was the girl and her pet vampire. How could a tainted creature and a human hybrid produce such powerful magic? It doesn't make any sense.

In that one instant, all of his plans have gone awry. So much energy can only mean one thing; that their bond is so strong that it is nigh unbreakable unless one of them is killed or unless they decide to mutually separate. The latter seems unlikely. He does not understand the girl's infatuation with the vampire, just as he does not understand Fintan's reluctance to become High Prince of the Fae and his insistence on keeping his family as far away from the Fae as possible.

There is nothing for it. There will be war. There must be war. He cannot take such an insult without retaliating. Besides, the girl is crucial and he will stop at nothing to get her. In her lies the key; he is certain. Her spark is strong. She just needs to learn how to develop it.

Niall stands. It is time to summon his court.

—

"It's too quiet," I say as I stand in the legendary garden of Sanctuary. We haven't heard back from Niall since that night. I doubt that he is oblivious to my decision. I mean, it was on CNN. Barisan explained to me that the earthquake occurred because I have not yet learned to control my 'spark'. Yes, I have magic in me, and apparently, I can use it if I want. I'm already using a little bit of it in the form of my telepathy.

"I thought you liked the quiet," says Eric as he comes up from behind to wrap his arms around me.

"Don't you think that more stuff should be happening now that we're bonded? I mean, what chance is there that Niall wouldn't know?"

"I think he knows," says Eric quietly. "He's just planning his next move."

"I don't want anything to happen to you." I lean back against him.

"Don't worry. The Three Hunters are together again. There is very little that is a match for us."

"The Three Hunters? Is that what you call yourselves?"

"It describes us better than the Three Musketeers, if that's what you mean." I twist around to look at him. The garden of Sanctuary is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. The pond, which is its centrepiece, is so clear that I can see all the way to the very deep rocky bottom without any problem at all. A few cobalt-blue fish swim lazily about. I think they're extinct in the rest of the world, and I'm also pretty sure I saw an Archaeopteryx here once.

However, the most amazing thing about this garden is not the clear pure water or the presence of prehistoric animals.

It's the sun.

It is always day time in the garden. More importantly, this sunlight does not burn vampires.

In the magic-induced sunlight, Eric is even more beautiful. The sun is behind him, so it looks as if he has a halo around his head. Now, I know Eric is no angel, but to me, he _is_ my guardian angel. He bends down to kiss me. My knees buckle. He catches me as he always does and sets me down on the soft sun-warmed grass. I never thought I could have such a moment with him. Vampires and sunlight don't exactly go together. The Ancient Pythoness must really be somebody if she has a place like this.

I wish we could stay like this forever. The outside world does not matter. All that matters is that Eric and I are in each other's company.

Of course, we must be interrupted somehow. It's become the norm rather than the exception. This time, both Barisan and Fintan interrupt us. Having your friend walk in on you is one thing. Having your grandfather walk in on you is another thing entirely, and it's much much worse, at least from my perspective. Eric is just annoyed either way. However, what Fintan says next changes his mind.

"The portals have opened," says Fintan, "and New Orleans has been overrun by goblins."


	22. Messengers of Destruction

**House of Cards**

**A/N: **I'm so sorry for not updating sooner. I've been working at the local newspaper office as an intern and I've just been so tired. I hope you enjoy this late offering.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. It all belongs to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball. Barisan, however, is mine.

**Chapter 22: Messengers of Destruction **

The supe world works very much like the natural world in many ways. There are those top predators that are few in number but very powerful on their own, and then there are the creatures very low down in the food chain that are resilient because they breed quickly and can overwhelm just about anything with numbers. You could say that those are actually super-organisms, where many units unite to form one single undefeatable unit. Goblins are the latter. If what Fintan and Barisan say are correct, then they have a gestation period of three months and just about pour out of holes in the ground. They are the equivalent of ants, being great miners and burrowers. And they are usually the vanguard of any Fae army.

"They are easily bought with gold and other riches," Fintan explains once I am decent. "And they'll eat just about anything. Preferably meat, including one another."

"It's a form of population control and natural selection," says Barisan. "They eat humans too."

"Brilliant," I say. "I really needed to know that."

"Don't slay the messenger," says Barisan. "I'm just passing on the facts. They are the epitome of primal evil. Tolkien captured them perfectly in his works."

"Do we know how many passed through the portals?" asks Eric, ever the practical one. He cares little for magical theory and how accurate a certain fantasy author was.

"The exact number is unknown, but I would say approximately thirty thousand," says Fintan.

"That's a scout party," says Eric. I goggle at him. Thirty thousand is a _scout party_? Then how many are supposed to be in the main party? I think I now know why Barisan is addicted to alcohol. It probably helps to be slightly tipsy when dealing with such situations. Alcohol obstructs rational judgement and you feel much bolder as a result. I don't want to do something foolhardy, but I don't want to hyperventilate either. I mean, we have three hundred fighters in NYC at the most.

"We can deal with thirty thousand goblins," said Fintan. "The main question is will we be able to deal with what comes _after_ the thirty thousand goblins?"

—

Life must go on, even in the face of disaster. There's no point in trying avoid something that is inevitable. We return to New York to prepare our defences. How do you defend a modern city against a magical invasion? The very idea just doesn't make sense. Then again, my life hasn't made sense for a while. Why should things start changing now?

Gran always said that even if you feel crap, you can't look crap, because you'll feel even crapper if you do. All right, Gran didn't actually use the word 'crap' but you get my meaning. I take that advice to heart the next morning when I get dressed to go to the office. Just because everything else is spiralling out of control doesn't mean that I will let it all go out of control, and my company is one of the things that I can regulate. I figure the money will be useful when the war finally reaches us. Maybe I can get someone to make me lemon juice bombs? I wonder if lemon juice works against goblins since iron doesn't affect them at all.

The news of what happened in New Orleans has spread like fire across a plain after a drought. Queen Sophie-Ann has requested aid from the Authority and her neighbours. Only the former has responded with reinforcements that are more for show than anything else. Her neighbours are too busy looking out for themselves.

Of course, the humans think that it's because the ground is still unstable from the floods that struck after Katrina. They don't know that buildings are collapsing because of goblins digging tunnels. Plus, they think the half-eaten humans were the victims of a deranged serial killer. No one has bothered to ask just how on earth this serial killer managed to eat so many people in the space of so little time.

It's spread overseas too. Al Qaeda, of course, is saying that this is God's punishment for America for all our evil ways. Steve Newlin's saying the exact same thing, except he's putting the blame on vampires. I'd hate to say it, but Stevie's just a little bit closer to the truth. Vamps are supes, and supes are the ones causing this.

The religious extremists might think we deserve it, but some more knowledgeable groups realize the significance of all this. Barisan tells me that there's been an influx of warlocks into the United States. He's actually getting his own little squadron. He might not be part of the bureaucracy yet, but he's highly regarded because of his age and his ability and his Grandmaster recognizes that. He also has experience when it comes to battle and conflict. He's lived in the Middle East for long enough. The warlocks' presence is very welcome. We need all the help that we can get.

The subway, in particular, is of utmost importance. If goblins are going to come to New York, then those tunnels will become their lairs. It is not safe, not here nor anywhere, except…

The In-Between. I know, it's the weirdest place name ever, but I didn't make it up. It's the warlocks' stronghold between this world and the Otherworld and is nigh impenetrable. Only someone who knows where it is can find it. No one knows where it is except warlocks. I'm not going there, but Tara and the unborn baby are. Barisan talked to her for a long time before she agreed, albeit reluctantly.

Hunter's going too, and so is Remy. That's a sore spot for me. You see, our warlock friend hasn't been entirely upfront about why he's been staying in NYC for so long.

Hint: It's not because my best friend's carrying his baby.

Yeah, Barisan intends to take Hunter as his apprentice. You know, like a Jedi padawan. Uh huh, I'm referencing _Star Wars_. I'm pissed off. Sure, part of it revolves around the fact that I want Hunter to have a happy normal childhood, go to school like other kids his age, go to tacky school dances, get dates, take his girlfriend (or boyfriend) to the prom with over-the-top corsages and head off to college. However, I know it's probably going to be just as difficult for him to have a normal life as it was for me. In fact, I've given up on being 'normal' and started to concentrate on just enjoying the life I've got and living another day.

What I'm really pissed off about is that Barisan didn't tell me of his intentions until now. As a result, I'm not really talking to him, but I _am_ letting Hunter go to this 'In-Between' place. Although, I can't help but wonder whether it might actually be better for them to go to Sanctuary; I mean, isn't the Ancient Pythoness very powerful? Or is she not powerful enough to take care of some troublesome fae?

Anyway, as I was saying, life must go on as usual, which means going into the office to make sure that everything is as it should be, and going to black tie events, even if they happen to be out in the Hamptons.

Eric doesn't want me going to the Hamptons. He doesn't like the fact that there isn't enough iron there to keep Niall and company away. However, it would be really weird if I just stayed at home. People will start saying I've developed some mental illness or that I'm having relationship problems. Or perhaps both. The gossip pages would love it. I manage to convince him to let me go to the Hamptons, provided I always have someone guarding me and that I wear iron on my person all the time. That means commissioning custom made iron jewellery so that I don't look like I'm part of the chain gang or something.

I've also commissioned shoes with iron stiletto heels, just in case.

Every year, on last Saturday of January, the Haufens would throw a party at the Hamptons. Each year, there is a theme. This year's theme is 'fantasy', would you believe it. I guess I can dress up as a faerie, haha. I used to dread this party when I was younger because everyone would be talking about their New Year flings and whatnot and there would be the inevitable question about when _I_ would get myself a guy. This year, I have a guy. Ever since the fundraiser for endangered wildlife, all of New York's elite circle knows that I'm with Eric. They also know that he won't be turning up to this party because he's a vampire.

However, I'm not going alone. Fintan's going to be coming with me to the party, and I'm going to be introducing him as a distant step-cousin fourteen times removed or something like that. That way, no one's going to think I already got myself a new guy, which I haven't, and no one's going to question why Fintan and Jason look so much like one another.

Well, that's the plan, until we pull up the driveway —'we' being the 'Three Hunters' and myself— and notice the smell. It is one of the most repulsive odours in existence, and one with which my three companions are very familiar.

"Something died here," says Eric. "Stay." That command is meant for me, but the other two stay behind anyway, just in case I decide to not listen to him. Eric takes off into the air and hovers outside the second storey windows. Then he gives the all-clear sign. There are no other live beings lying in wait for us; just a dead body of some sort. Please, let it not be human. Please, let it not be human.

I don't even know why I bother to pray. It obviously doesn't work.

—

There are bits of dead person spread all over my kitchen counters. The head stares out from the window of the microwave. The eyeballs have clouded over, and the mouth is open in a perpetual silent scream. The radiators are on and it looks as if they've been on for a while. Putrefaction is well under way. There are entrails in my sink and old blood on every possible surface.

Bile rises to the back of my throat. Eric quickly ushers me outside where bring up everything that's in my stomach. He holds my hair back as I do so and tries to send me comfort through the bond. It does help. I suck in huge gasps of cold and relatively clean air. The slight tint of decomposition is still there, but at least it's not as strong, and I don't have to see it. Fintan and Barisan come out soon afterwards.

"There doesn't seem to be any magic involved," says Barisan.

"I didn't sense anything distinctive either. Just death. Violent death," says Fintan. No shit. The guy is in multiple pieces. Although, I guess there _was_ a possibility that dismemberment could have occurred post mortem. "She was cut up when she was still alive." Gee, thanks, Gramps. I don't suppose you could say anything warm and fuzzy when I most need to hear it?

"Who would do such a thing?" I croak. Eric pockets his phone after calling the police. Barisan and Fintan, neither of whom have an American visa, make themselves scarce. We wait outside until we hear the high-pitched wailing of the sirens and see the flashing blue and red lights. Forensic units in their blue suits secure the crime scene. Once again, Andy Bellefleur is on the case. He's wondering whether my association with vampires has anything to do with the murder this time.

It's not a great scenario. My shields are wobbly at best, and everyone's thinking about the crime scene. At least the professionals are calm about it, analyzing clues instead of focusing on how disgusting everything is. I can't say the same of Andy, who has to look at the clues in detail but is also not programmed to deal with the 'icky' parts of his job on a daily basis. This is one of the most gruesome cases he's ever seen. No, scrap that. It is _the _most gruesome case he's ever seen.

And he's just seen one of the eyeballs fall out of the skull as the coroner removes the head from the microwave. The eyeball is hanging on by the optic nerve. If I had anything left in my stomach, I'd be sick again. I hold onto Eric, trying to use his mental silence as a form of defence. I wish we could leave, but there are questions that Andy needs to ask us before we can go.

"How long ago was it since you've been here?" Andy asks.

"Christmas," I say.

"Who was with you?"

"I was with Eric." I will not mention Niall's surprise visit.

The questions are quite routine. Who else has access to the house? Have I seen anything suspicious lately? Define suspicious, Detective Bellefleur. I received my ex's head as a Christmas present from my great grandfather and said great grandfather wants me to 'mate' with another faerie to produce baby faeries. It kinda changes one's notion of suspicious activity.

All right, I actually get what he means.

"I haven't been here for a month so if there is suspicious activity, I wouldn't know. My gardener might."

I give Andy the name of the gardener. He tells me to call him if I think of anything else that might be pertinent to the case. I promise to call him if something else comes to mind. Obviously, I don't think he needs to know about the faeries or the goblin invasion or the opening of portals. I cast out my thoughts, hoping to find either Fintan or Barisan, or perhaps both, to tell them that we are not staying here tonight, for obvious reasons. I am still going to that party tomorrow, but I'll be driving up early.

We meet them some distance down the road where no one can see us. "We were checking the area and I came across the most interesting magical signature," says Barisan as he climbs into the car.

"What he means is that he can't identify the magical signature," says Fintan.

"Like you knew what it was," retorts the warlock. "It is primal, ancient, and not particularly…how do I put it? _Ordered_. You know what I mean?"

"It feels as if it belongs to a creature that's only semi-sentient and is mostly under the control of its basest instincts," says Fintan. "Like…say…a rabid vampire?"

"Vampires do not contract rabies," says Eric. He's driving and not showing any respect at all for the road rules. I once broached the subject with him. In his opinion, such rules are not for people like him; they are for the others who do not possess the lightning reflexes that he does. I would agree with it, except each time he rounds a corner, I have to cling onto my seatbelt and pray that I don't die. Since we've established that praying doesn't work, well…

"What creature is like that?" I ask.

"We don't know," says Fintan. "But we have a sample of its bodily fluids." He holds up a vial. "We'll do some tests on it. Call it forensic magic."

—

When we get back to my apartment, Fintan and Barisan commandeer the kitchen for their experiments. Meanwhile, Eric is trying to talk me out of going to that party altogether whilst I'm planning a new kitchen for the house in the Hamptons. "I don't want to fuel the gossip mills," I say.

"I don't give a flying fuck about gossip," snaps Eric. "I want you to be safe. There's a homicidal magical maniac out there in the Hamptons, and of all the houses they could have picked for a body dump, they picked yours, wards and everything."

"I know, Eric, but you can't just lock me up here under house arrest or something. I have a company to run, and that company needs me to maintain a good reputation. You know that."

Eric swallows. He understands the reality of it. He just doesn't like it. I put my arms around him. It's odd. Usually, he's the one comforting me. Now I'm comforting him. About my safety. Eric might like to pretend he's cold and heartless, but he's not even close to that. Although, I think he might still be in denial about it.

—

"We have discovered the name of the creature after strenuous research," says Barisan.

"By which he means I did the experimenting and spell casting while he googled _my_ results on a pink laptop."

"Don't diss the pink, gramps," I say. "I bought it to match my nail polish."

"What did you get?" asks Eric, ever the practical one.

"A maenad," says Barisan. He turns said pink laptop around so that we can see the Wikipedia entry. "This isn't quite accurate, but it gives you an idea. They thrive on chaotic energy that is created when other creatures give into their basest instincts, and, although it doesn't say it here, they have poisonous claws."

"Brilliant," says Eric. "A maenad killed whoever it was in Sookie's kitchen?"

"Not exactly," says Fintan. "All we have established is that there is a maenad in the Hamptons. Whether it's linked to the murder or not is another matter entirely, although given the nature of maenads, I would say that either the maenad did it or it was drawn to the Hamptons by the twisted energy that was released during the murder."

"How do we get rid of it?" I ask. "The maenad, I mean. It's not something you want hanging around any neighbourhood."

"You can either placate _her_ or kill her."

"Her?"

"Maenads are always female," say Barisan. "Sorry, but it's just a fact."

"How do we do either of those things?" asks Eric.

"Placate her with tributes or kill her by burning, acid, dismemberment…use your imagination," says Barisan.

"Aren't you supposed to be an expert on all the supernatural creatures that threaten the safety of humanity?" I ask.

"I am a field agent, not a researcher, and I'm too young to have ever dealt with a maenad," says the warlock. "My father's the know-it-all genie killer, not me."

"Is daddy available to help?" I ask. I suppose genies and maenads are more or less the same…? I have no idea, to be honest.

"He's been dead for over eight centuries, Sookie," says Barisan.

"Truly, Barisan," says Fintan. "Do you really believe someone as powerful and ambitious as your father would willingly surrender his immortality?"

"Are you implying that he is still alive?" asks Barisan.

"I'm saying he's still very much alive, yes," says Fintan. "I met him in Germany when I was searching for something twenty three years ago."

"Brilliant," says Barisan. "My father lied to me for eight hundred years and my best friend kept it from me for twenty three. I guess that's life."

"He needed to go on pretending to be dead," says Fintan. "And the fewer people who knew, the better. You would have gone to find him if you had known. Don't say you wouldn't have."

"That's still called conspiring to keep someone in the dark, even if you were under the illusion that you were protecting me," says Barisan. "Don't say you didn't think it."

I look from my grandfather to Barisan and then back at Fintan again. If they know exactly what the other is going to say or do, then why do they even bother pointing out those things? I suppose they just need to get it off their chests. I can't say I agree with what Fintan did. If my dad faked his own death and kept it from me for most of my life, heck, I'd most definitely wanna know. Then again, my dad isn't some super fugitive genie-killing warlock who doesn't sound very nice at all. But who am I to judge?

"That is all beside the point," says Eric, ever the practical one. "The problem now is that the portals have opened and there is a maenad running rampage in the Hamptons. My question is whether Balian of Ibelin is going to help us or not."

"No," says both Fintan and Barisan at once.

"If he gets involved, he blows his cover," says Fintan. "And Balian is not foolish enough to risk that."

"My father never helps anyone without a very good reason," says Barisan. "As in he'll always be thinking about what's in it for him. Unless you're family."

"You're family," I point out.

"Yes, but the maenad is not threatening the House of Ibelin which, I believe, is thriving in England. Ergo, he is not going to give a damn, to put it nicely, and he won't unless the maenad comes after me specifically."

"You are perfect maenad bait," says Fintan with a shrug.

"What are you saying?" asks Eric.

"Hold up right there! You should not be using your best friend as maenad bait!"

"It's not as if we are going to let you come to harm," says Eric. "We cannot fight any enemy whose whereabouts is a mystery to us."

"Sookie," says Barisan, giving me a pointed look. I know what he wants me to do.

"Do you have a better idea?" I ask.

"You know," says the warlock, "you may have the semblance of a sweet girl, but you're just like the rest of us; opportunistic and calculating."

"Hmm, must be the corrupting influence," I say. "But one question. What do we do after we lure this maenad thingy out?"

"Good question," muses Eric. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Perhaps we should just pay her tribute and see if she'll be appeased," says Barisan.

"We could give my day walker Bobby Burnham to the maenad," Eric offers.

"Eric!" I punch my vampire in the arm. The only thing I achieve is that I end up needing an ice pack for my hand. Seriously, he might not be marble hard, but he's not that far off.

"You know, someone should call the Ancient Pythoness," says Fintan. "She most definitely is old enough to know how to deal with maenads."

"None of us are important enough to call her," says Barisan.

"None of us three are," says Eric. "Sookie here got a personal invitation from the Pythoness. I think there is a number on that invitation. I trust you kept it, lover?"

"The paper's very nice," I say defensively as I extract the invitation from my diary. "And can you three stop staring at me? You're making me nervous."

The phone is answered after half a ring. I recognize Settareh's voice on the other end. However, the voice I don't recognize is the Pythoness'. She sounds…well, young would be the wrong word to use, but she definitely doesn't sound ancient. She chuckles when I stutter in surprise.

"My dear Miss Stackhouse," she says, "while there might be certain advantages in taking the form of a hag, it would be tedious to stay that way for eternity. Now, I suppose you are calling to ask me about Callisto?"

—

I wish Tara were here to help me get ready, but I know she's safest in 'In-Between', with all those warlocks guarding her and the baby. I wonder if we'll get to go there once the baby is born, or what will happen afterwards. Tara can't stay there forever. Neither can the baby. He's her child, not just the warlock's child. If anything, the child belongs to Tara more than it belongs to Barisan because Barisan just had a bit of a happy moment in order to create the baby, whilst Tara has to carry the baby inside her for nine months.

I often think that God created women to have babies because men just aren't tough enough to do it. It's got nothing to do with the fact that Eve was the one who fell to sin. I'm pretty sure that's just a myth to make sure women do what men tell them, anyway. And, at any rate, I believe that the Bible is more metaphorical than anything because of the fossil record and all, but that's completely off the topic. It's not remotely relevant to my life right now unless seven-headed dragons start appearing.

Although, that is now a possibility. Who knows what lives in the Otherworld?

I put on my tiara. It was Gran's. She wore it to her wedding. I guess Gran was the American version of a princess back then, and now the crown has passed onto me, except I'm also faerie royalty in actuality.

Yes, I'm dressing up as a faerie princess for the Haufens' party. I'm wearing a Dior dress that's made to look like an orchid, with the purple stain showing up brilliantly against the voluminous white fabric. My shoes look like they're floating on white feathers. They're by Alexander McQueen. My hair's pinned up and the tiara is nestled against it. Diamonds glitter in their platinum settings. My great-grandfather did not spare any expenses for his daughter's wedding. Bartlett might have been the heir, but my Gran was the apple of her father's eye.

I wonder what I would have been to my dad if he'd survived. I don't really remember him very clearly, to be honest, except that he was a gentle soul who hardly ever had angry thoughts, let alone malicious ones. I remember a bit more about my mother. She thought I was a freak who should be checked into an asylum, and she always wondered what she'd done wrong for God to punish her with a child like me.

You might think I'm wasting time primping right now when there's a maenad that needs to be dealt with, but to be honest, you can't really deal with a maenad if you don't know where she is. The Pythoness is personally acquainted with this Callisto. She is just about insatiable, and will never stop her rampage unless she gets what she wants, which is a real bacchanal, in which there is a human sacrifice. I'm not going to let that happen; not on my turf.

Which means our only other choice is to lure her out and kill her by ripping her heart out. Easier said than done. Maenads are incredibly ancient and powerful creatures. Their power is fuelled by the belief that if they make enough sacrifices, their god, Bacchus, will come. The Pythoness tells me that Bacchus doesn't give two shits about his rampaging lovelorn followers as long as they continue to inspire frenzy in mere mortals, which they will continue to do so until he comes, which he won't. It's a vicious cycle.

"You look lovely, Sookie," says Fintan when he sees me. "Although I'm sure you were dressing with someone else in mind."

"I only ever dress for myself," I say. Okay, maybe I'm not being entirely honest. There have been times when I've dressed specifically with the goal of seducing Eric, but I'm not going to tell my _grandfather_ that. Fintan may be okay with it, but it still doesn't feel right to discuss my sex life with him.

"You are so much like Adele, you know," he says softly as he straightens my tiara. "I remember seeing her wear this. She looked like a queen, walking down the aisle."

"You were there at the wedding?" I ask.

"Of course," says Fintan. He's getting that faraway look in his eye again, as if he's going back in time and standing right there in the church. Then he snaps out of it. "Shall we go, Sookie?"

—

The Haufens have spared no expense in decking out their four acre lifestyle property with marquees and ribbons and outdoor braziers and ice sculptures. In my circle, you don't throw parties for fun. You throw them to augment your societal status. The entire property looks like some faerie land except I'm sure that the Otherworld is not some glittering little bubble where everyone is eating cake.

Well, holding plates of cake and picking at it. Most socialites aren't big eaters. They want to be able to fit into their designer clothes. Although, considering some of them never wear clothes for more than one season, I don't really understand why they bother. Unless the number is what they really care about, which could very well be the case.

Arlene's there, surprise, surprise. She's on the prowl for husband number five. Technically, Rene Lenier doesn't count as husband number five because they never said their vows. "Where's the bloodsucker?" she asks me when she sees me with Fintan.

"That's none of your business," I say. "And you should probably leave some make up for tomorrow? Just a word of advice, that's all." She gapes at me like I've grown fangs. In her eyes, I might as well have. She thinks I'm going to hell. She hopes I'm going to hell. How lovely.

"That's my girl," I hear Fintan murmur once Arlene stalks away. Gran would _never_ have approved of such rudeness. I guess that's why I still can't think of Fintan as being my grandfather. He seems so young and so old at the same time.

I spot Caroline Haufen a few feet away. It's only appropriate to greet the host. We air kiss each other, as is the custom. "It's so wonderful that you could come, Sookie," says Caroline. Her eyes are slanted from too many facelifts and she has the permanently surprised expression of one who has had too much Botox injected into her face. She's harmless, however. Her mind is so vapid that it might as well be a vampire's to me; the only thing she's thinking about is whether the cake should have had a hundred and twenty icing sugar stars instead of just one hundred. I treat those kinds of minds like white noise. "And that is a beautiful dress. Is it…Marc Jacobs?"

"Dior," I say. How can she not know that it's Dior? I mean, it was all over the news last season when John Galliano came out with this collection! I had to pull so many strings and Eric had to help me pull strings in order to get this dress!

All right, I might be overreacting. Not everyone loves clothes as much as Tara, Pam and I do.

"The place looks stunning, Caroline," I tell her.

"Really?" Caroline lights up like a Christmas tree. She only ever wants to be the perfect housewife and please everyone. Not that there's anything wrong with that but she's so dependent on the approval of others for happiness. I actually feel bad for her.

I introduce Fintan to her, and she gushes over him for a while before her attention is diverted. I follow the line of her gaze. There is a beautiful statuesque woman standing about twenty feet away, holding a glass of wine and swirling it around in her glass. Her sultry dark eyes, carefully enhanced with blue and gold shadow, are half closed. Her mind is strange. It's full of words that I don't understand, and a sort of primal rage that scares me. "Do you know her, Caroline?" I ask.

"No," says Caroline. "She's not on the list."

"Shit," whispers Fintan.

'_What do you mean by 'shit'?' _ I demand telepathically. _'Faerie princes are not supposed to say 'shit'!_'


	23. Sex, Blood and Rock 'n' Roll

**House of Cards**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. They all belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball. Barisan, however, is mine.

**Warning: **There is description of drug use in this chapter.

**Chapter 23: Sex, Blood and Rock 'n' Roll**

The woman —maenad— glances at us and smiles. It is not a pleasant expression, even though she means to look friendly. I can't read her mind. It's not that I can't hear her thoughts, but they're in a completely foreign language. I'm guessing some form of ancient Greek. She is talking to Mr Haufen, but soon enough, she takes leave of him —or, rather, dismisses him— and approaches us. She introduces herself to Caroline first, who is charmed by her smoothness and sophistication. "I hope you don't mind, Mrs Haufen," she says. "Mr Haufen mentioned that your party is the best in town and I wheedled an invitation out of him, I'm afraid."

Caroline loves it when people praise her abilities as a housewife. She beams at the maenad. "Of course not, Miss Forrester," she says. "I'm delighted that you came." Yes, Forrester. Maryann Forrester. Of all the aliases that the maenad had to choose, she had to choose one of the most normal and conservative names I've ever heard.

Fintan takes my glass of champagne away from me just as 'Maryann' turns to us, so that both his hands are full. Way to go, Gramps. Just throw me to the shark. "And, let me guess," she says. "You are Sookie Stackhouse. I have read about you." Damn reporters. Why did they have to put me in the papers? It's not as if I'm important or have any impact on the affairs of the world. The fact that I date a vampire won't make Armageddon come sooner, no matter what Newlin and his crazed fanatical followers might say.

Okay, our relationship has made my great-grandfather open the portals to the Otherworld thus allowing a huge influx of goblins and other unpleasant supernatural creatures into this plane, but that's another story entirely. "Very nice to meet you," I say as I put on my best 'Crazy Sookie' smile.

Fintan introduces himself as 'Conan Finnigan from Quebec'. Seriously. He also avoids shaking Callisto/Maryann's hand because he's holding my champagne as well as his own.

I thought Callisto might want to do something with us, but I'm not exactly relieved when she moves onto the other guests. What does she want? Maenads don't just turn up.

I feel a tap on my shoulder. It's Mikey Spencer. Well, his full name is Michael Johann Spencer the Third, but no one calls him that. His father is a famous neurosurgeon who's written more books than the number of shoes I own.

That might be an exaggeration, but you get what I mean.

Mikey is a couple of years older than me. He thinks he's a king. His mother is a blue blood heiress and he has a huge trust fund from her. At school, he was in Jason's year and a total jerk, although Jason used to be friendly with him until he tried to hit on me for a dare. And you might think Jason is useless but trust me, my brother's got a mean left hook. Mikey's not bad looking, but his smugness fits him like a bad pair of shoes. Unlike Eric, he just can't pull it off.

"Hey, Sookie," he says. "You're looking dazzling these days." He puts on all the charm he has. It doesn't stop him from coming off as slimy. "Do you have a moment?"

Mikey might be slimy, but with Fintan staying in the area, I don't think he can do anything to me. I let him draw me a couple of feet away, knowing full well that Fintan can hear us perfectly fine.

"Listen," he says, "a couple of us are having a party at my place on Tuesday night. Exclusive invitations only. Would you be interested?"

"What kind of party is it?" I ask.

"The wilder, more fun kind," he says. "There are no social constraints, no conventions. The only thing that matters at our party is fun and pleasure." He rolls the word off his tongue in what he thinks is a sexy manner. I get a glimpse of Janice Barrington and Simon Fitz going at it against a fridge in his mind. The image is very hazy and it's in crazy colours. He was high when he saw it.

And then I get a glimpse of something a lot clearer; a woman yelling, and then screaming. Blood.

"Sure," I say. "Count me in."

"Great," he says. "Feel free to bring a friend. Maybe your vampire might enjoy such things? I hear they're very wild."

"I'll ask," I say. How am I going to put this to him, I wonder? Oh, Eric? Fancy going to an orgy with me?

Of course he'd say yes.

—

"Eric, _must _you wear either the pink and aqua lycra or the yellow spandex?" I ask. Eric holds up two outfits in front of me. He wants me to choose his orgy costume. Both are just as hideous.

"It's an orgy, Sookie," says my vampire. "One must dress the part." He waggles his eyebrows. I make a face. "Why don't I model them for you?" Oh God! He is enjoying this _way_ too much. It is funny in a way, but even Eric can't salvage the hideousness of either outfit.

The pink and aqua lycra leggings come with a cropped tank top. I squeal with laughter and horror when he comes out of the bathroom and strikes a few poses for me, strutting down the length of my bedroom as if he were some catwalk model. I love a man who doesn't take himself too seriously.

It doesn't mean I'm going to let him out of the house in that outfit.

"Put it away!" I say. "Get rid of those pants now!"

"You seem very eager for me to take my pants off, lover. And these are leggings, not pants."

"I don't care what they are. Just put them away. They're almost as bad as those purple harem pants…" I trail off. It doesn't seem right to make fun of a dead man's pants. "Eric, seriously, this isn't the eighties."

"Oh, believe me, I know. My hair was a lot bigger in the eighties, although I believe the eighties' trends are returning to the runways, no?"

"I don't believe in following trends," I say. "And I will stand my ground and defend the fashion world against such assault. Now go and change."

He comes back out in the yellow spandex suit, and we would have gone through the same sort of meaningless innuendo-filled banter, except Eric discovers Barisan's hidden camera feed. He races out to prevent Barisan and Fintan from uploading the video of him posing in the pink and aqua lycra onto YouTube. Boys.

Pam arrives at that moment. She promised me she'd take care of my orgy costume, and I trust her judgement.

She hands me a garment bag. Inside is a red leather bodysuit with matching red thigh high stiletto boots. The bodysuit has long sleeves and a plunging neckline that dives deeply into my cleavage. The torso is decorated with buckles and there are even tight red leather gloves to match. This is serious _Playboy _material. I wonder if it's one of her work outfits?

Pam sighs when she sees Eric in his yellow spandex. "I _knew_ you would pull out those monstrosities," she says. "This is not a geek convention where you get to dress up as your favourite Marvel comic book character." Eric actually looks…embarrassed? No, it's not possible. Eric does not know the meaning of embarrassment first hand. "Luckily I brought you something."

She's brought him tight dark green trousers. With a lace-up crotch. I think I may love Pam. Dressing Eric up as Legolas has been one of my fantasies. Shhh.

"I have not worn such things since they were last in fashion!" protests Eric after Pam makes him put the trousers on. The laces in the front are very strained. Then he registers my lustful expression and decides that his child is a genius.

"Where's the rest of it?" asks Barisan.

"The point is that he goes shirtless, like a barbarian from a wild land," says Pam. She ducks her maker's half-hearted swipe.

I go into the bathroom to change into my costume. The leather is a lot softer and thinner than I thought it would be, and it's not difficult to move inside it at all. It doesn't have a built in bra, and I can't wear one underneath it, so my nipples are kinda…prominent. But I guess there has to be something vulgar in a costume for an orgy. There's no such thing as a tasteful orgy.

Eric's fangs drop when he sees me in my outfit. So does Pam's. Barisan whistles, earning himself an elbow in the ribs, courtesy of Fintan. "I was going for the Mordsith look in that show," says Pam. I never took Pam for a fantasy fan, but there you go. It just goes to show that you don't know people as well as you think you do.

I put my coat on over my costume. The paparazzi don't need to see this. I have enough rumours about me as it is. Eric's driving me to the Hamptons, and then we intend to stay at my house there. The police have taken down the tape around it, and it's no longer a crime scene. I've already gotten a quote from Alcide Herveaux for redoing the entire house. He's giving me a discount even though I don't really need it. I am going to send him a very nice and large gift basket this Christmas.

—

The orgy is taking place at the Spencers' Hamptons house, a spacious three-storey colonial style building hidden behind what feels like miles and miles of hedges. The gravel driveway is long. If we were walking, it would take at least ten minutes to reach the house from the road.

I don't think Dr and Mrs Spencer know about this orgy. They're quite conservative. I don't think Mikey's fiancée Nora Clyde knows about it either. Should I tell her that her fiancé is cheating in a big way? Is it any of my business? If I were in her place, would I want someone to tell me? I guess she'll find out about it afterwards, especially if there is any link to the dead body found smeared all over my kitchen counter.

The gravel crunches beneath the wheels of Eric's black Audi SUV as he pulls up the drive and parks almost directly in front of the steps that lead up to the front porch. An American flag hangs limply on its pole and occasionally sways in the breeze. I can hear laughter and smell acrid smoke coming from within. Marijuana, I think. I'm also thinking that there's much stronger stuff than pot in that house. People don't usually get so high on pot. My money's on coke, and not the fizzy kind. Everyone knows that Mikey is a bit of a dopehead. Well, everyone except his parents and his fiancée.

Mikey's instructed me to use a special knock. Three short, and three long. The door opens. At first, I don't recognize the man behind it, but then I realize it's Mikey Spencer with guyliner and in thongs. Lacy red thongs.

Ew. Ew. _Ew_.

Seriously, that guyliner thing only looks good on Johnny Depp when he's playing a pirate. It's a total turn-off anywhere else.

"Sookie and…friend!" says Mikey. "Welcome, welcome!" He must be seriously high to not remember who Eric Northman is. Everyone knows Eric, or his reputation, at any rate. It's either that, or Mikey hasn't picked up a newspaper since high school. Perhaps he's never picked up a newspaper before. Or watched the news. Or listened to the radio. Or gone on the internet to look at Reuters' website.

"I smell bleach," Eric whispers to me as he sheds his coat. There's a collective gasp when he unveils his sculpted body. "A lot of bleach." Bleach is used to clean up many things, including blood. I've been around vampires long enough to learn a couple of things. Plus, I like watching those forensic shows. Well, liked. I kinda stopped after Gran passed.

I don't know what to make of the party. The mental noise hits me like a mortar. Sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll. There are people having sex. There are people smoking joints and snorting lines. And then there are the ones heating up glass pipes, moving the flame from a lighter in a circular motion beneath the little glass bowls with crystals in them . Meth pipes.

"Try some of it," says Mikey. "Home made."

"You cook meth?" I ask.

"Ice," he says. "It's called Ice, and I hire cooks."

"Why?" I ask.

"It's good money, Sookie. How else am I going to afford what I can afford? You want some?"

"No thanks," I say. "Maybe some other time. Right now, I just wanna have some _fun_." Yeah, and call the cops. Meth destroys families. More than one man beat his stepchild to death because he was coming down off a meth high. I take a deep breath and cast out my thoughts, hoping to find out more about the woman who was killed. She was here. I know it. But who was she? What was she doing with Mikey and his friends? Eric grips my arm, giving me strength. I'm glad he's here with me. I use him as my anchor so the waves of semi-madness can't sweep me away.

The woman's name was Nirvana. Yeah, I don't think that's her real name either. She died here. In this room. That sofa where Mikey's making out with Janice—that's been moved to cover a particularly stubborn bloodstain. Janice remembers her roots. They'd been a dirty blonde. 'Nirvana' dyed her hair deep red to make herself sexier, and she's had both her breasts done.

Mikey started it first, punching her in the face during a heated argument. Then the rest of them, in their sex and drug filled haze, ganged up on her and beat her half to death. She was still alive when they dumped her in the trunk of Mikey's car and drove to my place. Mikey found the key between the rocks. They dragged her out of the car's trunk and then hacked her to death in my kitchen. Afterwards, they tried their best to remove all traces of themselves from my house. Since one of them, Houston Barrows, is a medical student, they did a pretty thorough job. They figured no one would report her missing because no one cared about her.

Do you know what the saddest part is? They were right.

It was Janice's idea to mutilate the body to make it look like the work of a crazed serial killer to throw the cops off course.

I am sickened. I went to school with these people, but it's like they're total strangers. No, aliens. How can they be so cruel and callous and selfish and unfeeling? Nirvana might have been a poor girl from nowhere. She might have been a prostitute. She might not have had anyone to care about her and she might not have been nice at all, but she was still a person. I think she would have liked to live, and perhaps had a chance to change her life.

"We should go," I whisper to Eric. He nods and we make for the front door, only to be blocked by Mikey and his friends.

"Going so soon?" he asks.

"I'm not feeling well," I say. "I'm sorry."

"Aw, come on, Sookie! I thought you'd be fun now that you're with a vampire."

"You're going to tell, aren't you?" sneers Janice. She and I…have never gotten along. In fact, she's one of the girls Tara beat up for me in grade school. I suspect she knows that I'm not normal. That's why she tormented me so much. The cold shoulders, the whispers behind my back, the rumours. When we got to high school, Tara couldn't beat up everyone anymore. I endured. We endured. Tara grew a tough skin. I retreated into myself and sought comfort in books. Usually, when I see Janice Barrington, I feel like I'm in high school again. But now…now I've been through too much. I've seen too much and suffered too much. Janice is nothing but a flea compared to the piranhas that I've met. She can't get to me. I'm stronger, I have a company, and I am not some drugged up slut who murdered a girl. Plus, I have my champion. Eric's presence contributes a lot to my courage.

"No," I say. "You are going to tell them everything." It's as if we've choreographed it. Eric hands me my phone —I'm not aware that he even left my side to go to my bag to get it. I scroll down to Detective Smalls' number.

Janice moves to wrestle me to the ground, and is promptly thrown backwards by Eric, who then glamours her. He can't glamour everyone, however. Mikey has gotten himself a broken broom handle. A broken wooden broom handle.

"Eric!" I scream. It has to be the moment when Detective Smalls answers his phone. I don't really know what happens next. Mikey is thrown back by an inexplicable magical force. The makeshift stake Mikey is intending to use spontaneously combusts. I feel a lot of heat under my skin, and I am lightheaded.

"Miss Stackhouse!" shouts Detective Smalls' tinny voice from the phone. "What's going on! Hold on. I'm coming." Huh? I haven't told him where I am.

True to his word, Detective Smalls arrives in five minutes with an entire squad of guys in Kevlar vests. By then, Eric and I have everything under control. The party goers no longer have the element of surprise. Plus, they're terrified of me. Mikey is still unconscious. He's alive though. Too bad. Maybe it's not right of me to judge, but I feel he deserves to die for what he did. Or at least be severely concussed.

The police take them away in handcuffs. "We're working on identifying the body," Detective smalls tells me. "Perhaps they'll be able to tell us who she was."

"She called herself Nirvana. That's all I know," I say.

"By rights, you shouldn't even know this much," says the detective. '_But you don't have to be afraid_,' he thinks at me. '_You can read my mind, can't you_?'

"How do you know?" I whisper. Eric's arm tightens around my shoulders.

"I just do," says the detective with a shrug. He glances around to make sure that no one's listening. "My mother was a witch. She hoped I would be a practitioner too. A warlock. Apparently, that's what my father was. However, I never showed any talent. Still, I know the supe world well enough to be able to tell that you are an exceptional young woman, and not just because you have the loyalty of the most important vampire in the area."

"I should probably kill you now," says Eric. "You know too much."

"But you're probably too smart to do so, Mr Northman," says Smalls. "You know I could be useful to you in the future." The detective hands me his card. "Should you wish to change professions in the future, Miss Stackhouse, let me know. You would be very helpful in apprehending criminals and putting them behind bars where they belong."

We watch him walk away. I'm exhausted, but I feel relieved that there is going to be justice for Nirvana. No matter who she was or what she did in life, she didn't deserve to die like that and she deserved justice.

"Now, why did you have to go and ruin the party?" asks a familiar voice. Both Eric and I whip around. It's not often that Eric is startled. In fact, hardly anyone can startle him. Certainly not a human. It's Callisto. Her feet are bare and she's wearing a white Grecian gown.

"This is why you came?" asks Eric.

"This is why I decided to take this detour," Callisto corrects him. "I was going to stay for a while, perhaps a week, to watch this drama play out and perhaps enjoy the hedonism, but you just had to cut it short, didn't you, Viking?"

"What do you want?"

"Well, originally I didn't even plan on demanding tribute, as I am feeling particularly generous. However, as you ruined my night, you owe me, North Man."

"What do you mean, we ruined your night?" I say. She glances at me as if she's just noticed me.

"I was counting on there being at least another death of a particularly violent and passionate nature," she says.

"You expected that?"

"With enough drugs and a little nudge, humans are capable of any atrocity. It's why I tolerate them. Barely. The Victorian era was so dry that it's put me off England forever, although I hear that they're back to their old sordid habits these days. Well, almost back."

"You should leave," say Eric. "This is no place for you."

"Really, Viking. Who will make me?" asks the maenad with a grating laugh. "You? Like I said, you owe me, and I won't leave until I have received what is owed to me. Or else I shall come and get it myself, and I will not be as lenient."

—

"How are we going to get enough power to kill a maenad?" asks Barisan. "Eric, you should have just killed some of those scum to placate her."

"They're humans and subject to human law," says Eric. "It's not good publicity to kill them in front of human authorities."

"And now we're stuck in exactly the same predicament as we were before," says the warlock. "Power of that scale is really hard to come by…_although_ you and Sookie don't seem to have any problem generating that sort of energy."

"Forget it, Barisan," I say before he can get any ideas about channelling our sexual energy or something. Seriously, what is it about sex and magic?

"It would be very effective," the warlock persists.

"She said no, Frenchman," says Eric. "Get another idea."

"The only other way would be to rip out her heart," says Fintan. "Barisan and I could distract her, but her powers affect us and I don't know how long we can keep it up."

"Is that what the 'shit' was about?" I ask.

"Callisto is very old, Sookie," says Fintan. "Her age makes her incredibly powerful. Add the fact that she is a maenad, and you have someone who is almost indestructible."

"All practitioners of magic are tempted to let go of all self-restraint," says Barisan. "And vampires are not naturally inclined to restrain themselves."

I have to question that claim. After all, Eric has shown amazing self-restraint before. Well, whenever I'm concerned, at any rate. All of a sudden, Fintan and Barisan take on thoughtful expressions. "Sookie, _you_ are still the key, no matter which way we look at this," says Barisan.

—

I don't really like this plan. It involves luring the maenad out with sex. Somehow, there is still sex involved. Now, I like sex just as much as anyone, but there has to be a limit, right? Plus, using sex as a weapon of war is just…wrong. It's called making love for a reason.

Well, I suppose it's making love when you have emotional attachment to the person you're doing it with. This is not the case here.

No, Eric and I are not the bait. They've recruited all the Fangtasia vampires and a whole bunch of donors to stage an orgy. Not inside the city, of course. Maenad-slaying can be messy, and we don't want to attract attention. Since Detective Smalls kind of a supe, we're hoping he'll turn a blind eye and steer the Hamptons' police away from what we're doing. He knows how messy it can get if humans know too much about the supe world.

So yes, we're using my house. That place is so gonna get trashed. I know it. What else can happen with a maenad, four vampires, a faerie, a warlock, and two dozen donors? Just as well I don't plan on keeping much of the old house.

Pam has been given free rein to decorate the house as she wishes. It now looks like the house of sin. I don't know where she finds those prints of naked women. And yes, there are a whole lot more naked women than naked men on the walls. The antique furniture has been moved to the basement so it won't get damaged —hopefully. The rest of it is from Fangtasia. I recognize Eric's old leather couch.

"Pam, the place looks like a brothel," says Eric.

"That's the idea," says Pam with a fangy grin. She's looking forward to this.

"I love it," says Barisan.

"I still think we should have brought your silk screen," says Chow. "The brothels I frequented all had silk screens."

"It's an antique silk screen from eighteenth century China," says Pam. "I am not letting anyone touch it."

"I'm from eighteenth century China, so technically I have more claim on that screen than you do," says Chow. The two launch into an argument about colonialism and imperialism, which is probably the least sexy thing I've ever heard.

"All right, children," Fintan. "Break it up. I don't think our human guests care about silk screens as long as there are vampires."

"That is very true," muses Indira. "Although I do not like the idea of pimping myself out."

"It's for the greater good, sweet pea," says Pam. "And you like sex."

"Sex for the sake of sex, yes," says the beautiful Indian vampire. "But sex for the sake of war? It doesn't make sense to me."

"It's magic," snaps Thalia. "It doesn't make sense." She only agreed to do this because there is going to be violence. Oh, and because Eric made her do it.

"How much did all of this cost?" asks Maxwell Lee, ever the accountant. "Does it goes on Fangtasia's accounts or the court's accounts?"

"Seriously, Maxwell, we have more important things to worry about right now," says Pam. "Get rid of those glasses."

"But they make my image!"

Pam whips the glasses off his face and crushes them in her fist before letting the pieces fall onto the carpet. Maxwell snarls.

"Hey, you look a little like Will Smith," says Indira. "I never noticed that." If Maxwell is anything else apart from a geek, then it's vain.

"Really?" he asks, smoothing his hair self-consciously.

The donors start arriving. They don't know that they're bait. There is something inherently wrong with that, and I feel a little bad about it, but perhaps I've spent too much time with vampires. Sometimes, you have to do a little evil in order to do a greater good. If we don't kill Callisto, more people will get killed.

Barisan, Eric, Fintan and I retreat into the back. The last thing we need is for them to be mobbed by donors.

I feel it when Callisto arrives, drawn by the sordid sex. It's not enough for her, but she likes this kind of thing. She's just a little disappointed that there isn't any violence, but she feels she can fix that—wait, am I reading her mind? No, not reading it. I'm picking up her feelings.

Madness gathers. I can feel it in my bones. I want to let go of all social conventions. To hell with propriety? What's the point of it? People should do whatever makes them happy. Who cares about anyone else? But…that's so selfish. Where's the order? It would be anarchy, and people will start killing each other.

When I think that, the effect of her power wears off. I know she's still doing whatever she's doing, but she no longer has any influence over me. After all, what is magic if not a manifestation of will? And my will has trumped hers.

I feel the power of the counter spell that is being cast. Barisan and Fintan are doing their part. Not particularly well, I might add, because the magic, which usually sounds like a song, is wavering and full of wrong notes. I glance at Eric. His eyes are glazed and his fangs are out. He is being affected too. I reach out and grip his arm, at the same time probing the bond between us and basically forcing him to become aware of something else other than the maenad's power. He senses me and turns to look at me. His eyes clear and he remembers why we're doing this.

The maenad revels in her power, the passion, the anger and the primal instincts that are running wild. She doesn't notice when we sneak up behind her. Well, until Eric actually attacks.

Eric is fast, but so's the maenad.

I think my experiences of late have made me bolder. I'm done being the frightened little maid waiting to be rescued. Sometimes, I have to be the one doing the rescuing. I grab one of the vases —also shaped like a naked woman in a very seductive pose; Pam likes to make her preferences obvious, I guess— and lob it at the maenad's head. She turns and prepares to rip me to pieces. Her hands have become talons. That's the chance that Eric needs. He plunges his hand deep into her chest cavity.

Everything comes to a standstill. The pulsing magic stops. Well, the maenad's magic stops, and Barisan and Fintan improve their spell, not that there's any need for it. Eric has her. With a snarl, the vampire rips his hand free, with the beating heart in his fist. The maenad's blood is black, like ink. It coats Eric's hand. For a moment, she remains in suspended animation, and then she disintegrates into black dust. Not that I was hoping for more drama, but this is pretty anti-climactic. I would have thought that something as powerful as Callisto would have a more spectacular sort of death, perhaps spontaneous combustion? Then again, it would be a very bad thing if she spontaneously combusted because Eric his highly flammable.

It's not right that I should talk about my significant other like he's a chemical.

My eyes meet his. He gives me a nod. He's fine. So am I.

Around my trashed living room, people look as if they're just waking up from a deep drug-induced sleep. They're bewildered by the state of the room. The prints have been torn down. Furniture is splintered. Some people are bleeding. It's a miracle that no one got seriously hurt. I glance at the clock. It hasn't even been an hour yet but so much has happened. The Hamptons is, once again, safe. At least for now until the next batch of nasty beasties decide to pay a visit.

I fall into Eric's arms, not caring that he's covered in maenad gunk. I'm just so relieved that we're all okay and that life will return to normal. Well, as normal as life can be when we're on the brink of war with the fae, but hey, there's one less thing to worry about now.

Eric kisses me on the top of my head. "Let's go home," he says.


	24. Gothic Monsters

**A/N: **I apologize for not updating for so long. I have very legit reasons, I swear. Real life is getting the better of me. Anyway, I won't bore you with my excuses.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything you recognize. They belong to Charlaine Harris. Barisan is mine, though.

**Chapter 24: Gothic Monsters**

Eric flies me home, carrying me in his arms like I am the most precious cargo he's ever transported. The night air is cold. I shiver as I hold onto him tightly. He is still covered in maenad gunk. I suppose that can't be helped, and I'm glad I'm wearing my old high school sweatshirt. I know, I know, it's not a sartorially acceptable choice but I am not going to go into battle wearing Gucci gowns.

I still remember thinking up the slogan for my sweatshirt eight years ago, although it feels more like eight centuries. I might not look that different, but I feel like a completely different person. I have a purpose in life. Well, I always have, but back in those days, I thought my purpose was to show up to different charitable events and lend my voice to good causes, as well as donate money. Now I'm solving crimes, helping to slay fantastical monsters and trying to prevent the apocalypse. And I'm no longer a singleton. It's a huge leap.

"What are you thinking about, my Sookie?" whispers Eric as he lands softly on my balcony. "You seem sad. I do not understand. We won a great victory today, and without you, we would all be dead."

"I'm just being sentimental," I tell him. "It's nothing." He gives me a look that clearly says he doesn't believe it's nothing. I know better than to try and keep quiet. It's just easier to tell him. It's not like I need to hide anything for him. "I'll tell you later, when I'm clean."

"I believe I know exactly what you're after," says Eric. He opens my screen door —it's never locked because I don't think thieves can scale seventy storey buildings to reach my balcony, unless they're Batman or Spiderman, or Eric— and soon I find myself in the Jacuzzi, straddling a soapy wet Viking.

Sex in a Jacuzzi is just out of this world. The highly pressurized torrents of water just enhance the experience. So does the warmth and the steam. My senses are heightened, due to the rush of adrenaline I experienced earlier. I am still riding that high. And Eric is always aroused by battle. For vampires, violence and sex and blood are all closely intertwined. In fact, for some vampires, it's very difficult for them to see any difference at all. Eric is a more advanced specimen. After a thousand years, he's learned to control his basic impulses most of the time. Still, there's no denying that he is more vigorous tonight. I love it. He is my warrior. There is nothing tame or domesticated about him.

The bathroom floor is flooded by the time we're done. Norma Jean's going to hate me when she comes in tomorrow. Seriously, I caught her thinking about quitting because she really doesn't like working for someone who sleeps with vampires, but the pay is too good and I treat her well; better than a lot of employers would, anyway. Still, she's afraid that she'll end up in hell.

"Will you tell me now?" he asks as I lean against him in my post coital bliss. He is tracing patterns on my stomach languidly with a long finger.

"Huh?" I ask. I've already forgotten.

"You were thinking about something that made you both sad and happy," he says. "It confuses me."

"Oh, that. I was thinking about my high school leavers' sweatshirt. The one I was wearing tonight?"

"Your sweatshirt?" he asks with a frown.

"It's silly, isn't it?" I glance up at him. "I got it eight years ago, and I was thinking about how much had changed. I mean, back then, I thought vampires only existed in novels and movies and I was so…innocent."

"Do you regret finding out about vampires and getting involved with me?" he asks softly.

"I regret a lot of things in life, but I have never regretted meeting you." I twist around to look him in the eye and I cup his face with my hand. "I will never regret the first time I laid my eyes on you. I love you, Eric. I love you so much I don't even know how to say it. You're my…my… champion." I hope he can feel it through the bond. I hope he understands what he's feeling.

"Champion?" muses Eric. "I like that."

"So do I."

We don't get out of the Jacuzzi until it's almost dawn, and if Eric hadn't been a vampire, I think he could have continued until nightfall. It's a good thing that he is a vampire, because faerie or not, I just can't keep up with him. A girl needs her beauty sleep.

—

In the aftermath of the arrests, the entire Upper East Side is subdued. Poor Dr Spencer and his wife now face whispers wherever they go. People wonder if it's their fault that caused Mikey to turn out this way. People are wondering whether the same twisted things go on behind their doors. I would have offered them my support, but I don't think I'm their favourite person right now. Dr Spencer understands that I did what I had to do, even though he's a little puzzled about how I got involved, but Mrs Spencer, who is not a highly rational person like her husband, thinks I'm the reason Mikey's now facing a murder charge and the possibility of life imprisonment.

Still, it wouldn't be the Upper East Side if there wasn't yet another party or a launch or a gala or something. And yes, there's a ball tonight at the Met.

I'm wearing an ombre Zac Posen silk crepe gown in beige, navy, and black. The top is sheer, with two strategically placed straps covering the essentials. The hint of skin is tantalizing, and I'm proven correct as I hear the click of fangs.

"Eric, don't you know how to knock?" I ask without looking around. I can see him in my mirror anyway. That whole thing about vampires having no reflections? All lies. He would be pretty unhappy if he couldn't look at himself in the mirror. What can I say? My vampire has a healthy sense of self worth, to put it positively.

He glides up behind me. He's so tall and handsome in his black tux. His hair is woven into a long braid down his back. He places his hands on my waist. I can feel the coolness of his skin through the thin material of my dress.

"Nuh uh," I say. "You're not distracting me. We're already running late." It's true. We spent a bit too long in the shower together earlier this evening. The floor of the bathroom is now flooded. I think I should give the help bonuses this week. I mean, the stack of towels we went through is phenomenal.

"You're very determined, Miss Stackhouse," says my vampire with a little pout. Yes, Eric Northman is pouting. It's actually rather cute, not that I would ever tell him he was cute. He'd be offended.

"You'll have your reward later when we come back," I say firmly. "Zip me up, please?"

"I'd rather unzip you," he says with a low growl, but he does as I ask.

I wear my black Jimmy Choo diamante-embellished suede sandals with the dress, along with my favourite Alexander McQueen skull-clasp clutch and tusk-shaped Roberto Cavalli gold and mother-of-pearl earrings. I tie the look together with a Cavalli cuff with a gold-plated bull's head on it. Considering we just defeated a maenad, it seems strangely appropriate. The maenads' god, Bacchus, is often associated with bulls. I've put my hair up and bared my neck in another needless effort to seduce my Viking.

He offers me his arm like a true gentleman, although true gentlemen usually don't make love the way he does. Not that I'm complaining. I'll take my barbaric Viking prince over southern plantation owners any day, thank you very much.

"Eric…I know this is a strange thing to ask you right now…" I begin.

"Ask it, Lover," he murmurs. "If I can give it to you, I will."

"Can we…spend the night at your house?" This is a spur of the moment thing. I didn't plan it. I didn't even know I wanted it before now.

"I thought you'd never ask," he says. "And, before I forget…" I feel him slip something onto my middle finger. It's a ring, with several platinum threads entwined to make a band. The threads all come to a cluster at one point, and nesting in the middle of that cluster of shimmering threads is a yellow diamond. Surrounding it are smaller diamonds, all uniform in shape and size.

"Eric, you didn't have to…" I whisper. Tears are threatening to fall. I never expected him to get me an engagement ring. After all, that's a human custom that's come into being after he was turned. In his day, they probably gave each other sheep or cattle or something like that.

"I want to," he says. "In my world, we are bound, and if I could, I would marry you in the human fashion because I know it's important to you. Unfortunately, the law says that I can't marry you because I am vampire and you are human, but there's nothing to stop us from being engaged. I want the entire world to know that you are mine and I am yours."

I pull him down and press my lips against his. That's the only response I have for his declaration.

Most of the guests are already there by the time we arrive at the Met. The paparazzi are most definitely there. They snap something like a million photos and I'm blinded by their camera flashes by the time I actually get to the top of the steps. If it weren't for Eric, I wouldn't have known where I was going and I'd have walked straight into the door. That would be a lovely picture for the front page, wouldn't it?

Paparazzi have eyes so sharp that they can put eagles to shame. And it's pretty hard to miss the huge yellow diamond I'm wearing. At once, the questions start flying. Am I engaged to Eric? Am I aware that vampire-human marriages are not legal? What about kids? Nothing is sacred for the paparazzi. I'm sure that even though I haven't given them a single answer, the tabloids next morning will feature exclusive interviews with me, or perhaps Eric. I'll have to set Sal to work on that once I get off my high.

"Sookie, that is a very nice ring that you're wearing," says Mrs Fortenberry when she sees me. I'm not really flaunting the ring. It just happens to be rather eye-catching. I'm not making any effort to hide it either. I can hear a million thoughts going on inside her head. Part of her is berating me for getting involved with vampires. Another part of her is jealous because her husband never spent so much money on her. If she wanted diamonds, she had to get them herself. She's also wondering what's happened to that 'charming British boy'. Hah. If only she knew.

Arlene's there too, and she's glaring daggers at me. I could be petty and flaunt my…Eric at her singleton self. Or I could be gracious and pretend not to notice that she's being rude. I choose the latter. I'm a better person than she is and I'm gonna prove it. Wait…is that too mean spirited? I guess I'm only human.

"They're all staring at us, Eric," I whisper.

"No, they're staring at you," he whispers back. "You're too beautiful to be not stared at."

"That's the cheesiest thing you've ever said to me."

"You like cheese."

"Only good cheese. Crap plastic cheese slices are crap—why are we even on this vein of discussion?"

"I don't know, Lover. You tell me."

I can't help but giggle. We're being so silly and I love it. I'm also incredibly proud of my champion and now my…partner. Yeah, that's what Eric is to me. We've always been partners, ever since we first met. First we were business partners, then we were partners in crime, and now we're partners in every way. I marvel at how far we've come and how much we've been through. Cheesy, I know, but people in love are cheesy, and I really am in love; so much in love. I don't even care that people are thinking horrible thoughts.

Some people are genuinely glad to see that I'm happy. Hoyt, for one. Jason is, surprisingly, contrite about how he first reacted when he heard about me dating Eric way back when I first met the Viking. I'm a little nervous as he makes his way towards us, with his girlfriend Amelia on his arm. I can hear how excited she is that he's finally coming to terms with me dating a non-human. There's something she wants to tell him about herself.

Wait…Jason's been dating a witch for the past year without knowing it. She's not the same as the witches who cast that spell on me, though. She's a human-born witch who managed to learn magic. She wasn't born with it the way Barisan was, and she isn't nearly as powerful. Plus, she only ever practises white magic, which means Jason is perfectly safe with her. At least, as safe as Jason can be.

"Hey Sook," says Jason awkwardly. "You're looking good." He gives Eric a nod of acknowledgement, and then the blood drains from his face when he notices my ring. I can hear my brother wondering what's going on with us, whether they've legalized vampire human marriages and he just didn't hear about it. "Um…listen. I…uh…I just want you to know that…uh…you're my little sister, and I'm gonna accept your decision if you…uh…y'know." He can't bring himself to say it, but he does want me to be happy, and he doesn't want us to be estranged. He's trying not to judge, but it doesn't come easy for him.

"Thanks, Jason," I whisper. "It means a lot to me."

"Yeah, well, it's your life and you're all I got now," he says. "'Sides, he can't be so bad if he makes you this happy."

Eric presses his lips together. He's not impressed that Jason is talking about him in the third person. I would prefer it if Jason could talk like Eric's right here, but I'm realistic in my expectations. After all, Jason's just come to terms with the fact that I love this vampire. I'm content with that for now and I'm not expecting any double dates in the near future. It would be weird, anyhow.

I wonder if I should tell Jason about our grandfather, and then I decide against it. I don't want to heap everything on Jason so quickly. Besides, if Fintan wanted to let Jason in on the secret, he'd have done it already.

"So…uh…what are you two going to do, coz it still isn't legal for a vamp and a human to…y'know…" Jason says awkwardly. Amelia mentally groans and gives him a nudge.

"Sookie and I do not need to sign a piece of paper to be committed to one another, Mr Stackhouse," says Eric. "What happens between us is our business, and no one else's."

"Fair enough," says Jason. He's nervous, and I don't blame him. In his eyes, Eric is the most intimidating person —or creature— he has ever encountered. Eric _is_ very impressive, after all. We speak for a little while longer, mostly about mundane things. Then Jason decides that he's bored. Amelia is eager to get away as well. No one's going to notice them leaving if they leave in the right way. We're socialites; we know how to avoid paparazzi notice if we want.

"Do you feel like heading home early?" Eric asks. The buzz of mental activity around me has only increased, and he must have felt me trying hard to block out all the nasty thoughts.

"Yeah," I say. We've taken the pictures, and I'm sure Eric has much better things planned for us at home. "Actually, Eric, do you think…we could go to your place?" It's a spur of the moment thing and I feel his surprise through the bond. In all the time we've been together, whether it's been for real or for show, he's always come over to my house. I don't even know his address. "I mean, we don't have to if you don't want to, but…y'know…"

"If that is what you really want, then that is where we will go," he says. "Will you excuse me for a moment? I need to make some arrangements for you."

"Eric, you don't have to do anything special for me," I say.

"The bathrooms need toilet paper," he whispers, sounding a wee bit embarrassed.

"Oh."

—

His house needs a lot more than just toilet paper. If Sookie wants to stay there, it's going to need a makeover. Eric scrolls down to Pam's name. She answers within one ring.

"Eric, is something wrong? Did you and Sookie fight?" she asks immediately.

"Why would you even think that?" he asks.

"Well, if you didn't fight, then why are you on the phone with me and not doing something with her?"

"She wants to see my house I need you to go to my house and take that skull cup away."

"You mean the one that you made out of the were-tiger's head?" Eric had gotten the head from Barisan after it had been discovered beneath Sookie's Christmas tree. He then had his private jeweller, who is also a vampire, coat it in gold and attach several semi-precious stones to its surface so that it now sparkles more than New York City during a December night. His father used to have a cup like that, made from the skull of his worst enemy. You can take a man away from the Viking world, but you can't take the Viking out of the man.

"I only have one skull-cup. Sookie is coming tomorrow night and I don't want her to see it."

"I think she knows about your psychopathic tendencies, Master. She's smarter than you give her credit for."

"I do _not_ have psychopathic tendencies! I just happen to take the business of vengeance very seriously—why am I even defending myself? You are my second in command. You will do as I tell you. I do not need to explain anything."

Pam just laughs. She is _much_ too amused for his liking. "I don't think she'd mind as much as you think, so long as she doesn't realize it's the tiger's head. She's tough, that little faerie." Is it just him or does Pam actually sound…affectionate?

That is too unnerving to comprehend.

"Just do as I say, Pamela," he says. "Oh, and before I forget, we need toilet paper."

"You are truly becoming domesticated," she says with a laugh. He hangs up on her.

—

Eric's house is a regular bachelor's pad. I'm still finding it rather hard to believe that he actually lives in the Hamptons. He never told me, and I never bumped into him there. Then again, there's no reason why I should have bumped into him prior to my hunt for a serial killer. Back then, I stayed at home whenever I went to the Hamptons and read sappy romance novels. He also lives in a different part of the Hamptons, in a gated community.

"I do have an apartment in Manhattan," he tells me, when he sets me down on my feet in front of it. "But this is the house I like most." On the outside, it doesn't look like much. In fact, it looks like any other house in the Hamptons, with red bricks and a colonial style tiled roof. The hedges are neatly trimmed, and there are the generic stone statues of animals.

Inside, however, is another story. Eric's house is a veritable fortress, with keypads, and even an eye scanner and voice recognition programs for the doors. If ever I need to barricade myself anywhere, I know where to go.

I don't really know what I expected Eric's place to look like, both inside and outside. I guess there was a part of me that imagined his house to be a lair, a la Dracula's in _Van Helsing_. I should have known better. Dracula is not a follower of Hugo Boss and Tom Ford.

Eric's very much into minimalism and bold colours. And space. Lots and lots of space. I'm the type of girl who likes a couple of glass sculptures, and maybe a wood-carving and a few pot plants to give my space a more homey feel —if done wrong, that ends up as clutter— but Eric is not one for over-decoration. Or even much decoration. He has one or two black and white photos hanging on his jewel-toned feature walls. One is of the Moeraki Boulders in New Zealand. There's something starkly beautiful about the image of large black and almost perfectly round boulders half submerged in the freezing ocean. There's a sword hanging above the large fireplace.

"Do you like it?" he asks, anxious for my approval.

"I love it," I tell him honestly. Every corner of the house practically screams 'Eric Northman'. It's big, bold and beautiful, just like him. I lean against him; my rock, my refuge, my champion. At that moment, I realize how lucky I am. Sure, I might be wanted as a breeding machine by psychopathic faeries, there might be attempts on my life every two to three weeks and I've been through hell and come out barely alive, but I have Eric.

"Then it's yours too," he says. "I'm yours, Sookie Stackhouse."

"Should I mark my territory?" I ask. My hand slowly pulls his shirt out of his pants. My fingers graze against his abdomen and creep up, inch by inch, towards his chest.

"I'd like that," he says. He takes me into his arms, bridal style. "Since I just put a ring on your finger, you're my bride tonight, and tradition dictates that the groom should carry his bride over the threshold."

"I think we just passed that," I say with a little giggle. God, I feel so silly and high and so ridiculously happy. Then again, why wouldn't I be happy?

"There's still the inner sanctum," he says with a wicked grin.

Eric's bedroom also screams 'Eric', but in a very different way. The entire room has been painted a deep red —a little bit darker than blood red, but not quite maroon. Dominating one wall is a beautiful painting…of Eric himself. He's sprawled on a bed of furs like a dominant male lion, propped up by a mountain of pillows. By the bed is a decanter and a goblet full of something red. Someone who doesn't know better might think it's wine, but I do know better. It's as if the painter caught him just as he was glancing his way. There is a tiny hint of a self-assured smirk. Whoever painted this captured his predatory and sensuous nature perfectly. Unlike the Fangtasia calendar photo, he's not hiding anything in that painting. At least, not deliberately. As a result, most of him is on display in a very pleasing manner.

"Do you like it, Sookie?" asks Eric. Asshole. He knows I like it. Very much. Hell, he can probably smell it.

"How big does your ego have to be to hang a picture of yourself looking like this up on your wall?" I ask instead.

"I am justified," he says. "The painting was gift from a good friend."

"I wonder how much of a friend she was," I say.

"He," Eric corrects me. My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. He laughs. "Oh, Sookie, it was never more than a perfectly platonic friendship. Artists like having nude models. Look at all the great works."

"That's true," I say. "David, for one."

"Michelangelo based his David on me," says Eric. "Only, he didn't get the proportions _quite_ right." Maybe Michelangelo wasn't that good an artist if he could get _those_ proportions wrong.

"_Michelangelo_ painted this?" I squeak.

"No, he didn't," says Eric. "Leonardo did."

"Leonardo who?"

"Da Vinci. Leonardo Da Vinci. You have heard of him, haven't you, Lover?"

"Of course I do! And I know that he only ever completed ten paintings in his life, and Eric Northman wasn't one of them!"

"There are ten _known_ completed Da Vincis, Sookie. This is the eleventh painting he finished. No one knows about it, save for myself, Finn and Barisan. And now you."

"You were friends with _Leonardo Da Vinci_," I whisper.

"I wasn't the only one. Finn and Barisan knew him too. He just didn't paint them."

"And did he know…?"

"That I was a vampire? He knew, but he was fine with it. Very little escapes a mind as brilliant as his."

"Did you glamour him?"

"You can't glamour geniuses, Sookie."

"I guess that makes me a genius."

"Who has the big ego now?"

"I learned from the best." I wonder if I can somehow get a replica of that painting for my own apartment, and if it's too explicit for hanging in the sitting room. Such a thing of beauty should not be hidden in a bedroom, and it's _art_. You're allowed to take certain liberties with art. I mean, the Sistine Chapel features a very naked Adam on the ceiling and no one's said anything about it.

"Imitation is the highest form of flattery," Eric tells me as he bends down to bring his mouth to mine.

I think very little of the painting after that one kiss. It's too bad that kissing is all we get to do, because something starts buzzing in his pocket. At first, I think it's just because he's very happy to have me here. Then I realize that it's his phone and not something else. I'm a bit disappointed about it.

"What?" Eric snaps into the phone. He loses the snarl quickly. "It will be easier if you come here. I will see you in two minutes."

"What's going on?" I ask. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't know," he says. "All I know is that Tara is somehow in Italy, and Barisan's father's resurfaced in the form of a cryptic letter." I curse Barisan's family and their _excellent_ timing. Why do they always interrupt during the times when I least want them to?

—

I expected just the three hunters and me. What greets me is the sight of a war council sitting in Eric's 'living' room. Pam and Chow are both present, with Chow still in his Fangtasia regalia. The two vampires are rather wet, and Pam is very displeased by that, since she's wearing a pink Ralph Lauren cable knit cashmere sweater, belted at the waist with a two-toned skinny leather belt by Chloé, along with a paircream silk-wool blend trousers by Malene Birger. On her feet are a pair of pointy Michael Kors black calf-hair pumps. None of those items are particularly water resilient.

"Chow set off the sprinklers in the club," says Pam, casting an annoyed look at the Chinese vampire.

"A little water will not harm anyone," retorts Chow. "There is no carpet."

"You made me wet, and not in a good way!"

"Believe me, I would be very worried if I could make _you_ wet. It would be detrimental to my manhood."

"We thought we might need those two, so we swung by Fangtasia to pick them up," says Fintan, who doesn't look so sure that we need those two anymore.

"Pam, Chow, quiet," Eric growls.

Pam mutters something under her breath about not being in the way of the sprinklers if not for some cup that Eric asked her to put away safely. I can't see Eric being the kind of guy who would worry about designer china.

"Where's the letter?" I ask Barisan, who has been uncharacteristically quiet. Usually, you can't shut him up. "And how is Tara in Italy? I thought she was in In-Between."

Without a word, the warlock hands me a folded sheet of paper. It is a very generic piece of paper, like the type you find in office photocopiers, so I doubt we'd be able to trace the source. There are three words on the piece of paper. _'Beware the trolls_.'

"What is that supposed to mean?" I ask.

"It can either mean that someone is fucking with us, or that we should be careful of real trolls," says Fintan.

"You're a faerie prince," I point out. "You shouldn't swear."

"I'm a faerie prince, not a saint," says Fintan. "I am gravitating towards the latter explanation."

"There are such things as trolls?" I glance around, hoping that I'm wrong and he's just having me on. Gullible humans are funny, right? I don't get the sniggers I'm hoping for. It's a sad day when you wish that people would laugh at your gullibility. However, Eric just looks troubled, and Barisan is grimacing. Even Pam, who usually finds the least funny things to be funny —and doesn't get actual jokes— isn't so much as smirking. "You're kidding me. There are trolls?"

"Trolls usually make up the vanguard of fae armies," says Fintan. "They're large, destructive, and they breed like rabbits. In essence, they are the very best form of cannon fodder. If Balian believes that there will be trolls coming through the portals, then he's most likely right, and the war is about to begin."

"What are we going to do?" I ask. Stupid question, but it needs to be asked.

"Trolls are…pesky," says Fintan. "They're hard to kill and we don't have the numbers on our side right now."

"I have forty eight vampires who are capable of fighting," says Eric. "I can probably recruit a hundred more."

"We need weapons," says Fintan.

"Heavy artillery, shells, tanks," Barisan starts listing.

"I may be rich, but I don't have an arms contract with the government," I say, cutting him off in the middle of his list. "Where are we going to get these things?"

"Do you think, for a moment, that the humans will _not_ notice if trolls start climbing up the Eiffel Tower or something as subtle happens?" asks Barisan.

"Is it a good idea to let humans know about all the other supernatural creatures out there?" I ask. I'm anxious. The human world did not take the revelation of the existence of vampires as well as they should have. I can't imagine what they will do once they find out that there are faeries and trolls and weres and whatever else is out there. It will be chaos.

"We can either choose to let them know," says Barisan, "or they can find out of their own accord once things start happening. Either way, they will know. In this, we are powerless. We can only choose the method in which they come to realize that they are not the only sentient creatures in this world."

"I think they already know that, Barisan," says Fintan. "Otherwise, there would not be such huge projects concerning extra-terrestrial life."

I just hope that ET is fiction. Otherwise, we're screwed.

—

We call everyone of importance that we can think of. This is where my upbringing as a blue blood socialite comes in. I know a _lot_ of people. The director of the FBI used to play lacrosse on the same team as my dad, for instance. I don't like calling in these favours usually, because I always feel like some sort of parasite, but since the fate of the world is at stake, I let go of these qualms.

Hamish Nolan is very fit for a man in his sixties. His muscle tone has diminished from when he was in his prime, but he's not flabby like a lot of human males of a certain vintage. There's not a hint of beer belly in sight. His handshake is firm, and he can't stand nonsense. I know we have five minutes to capture his attention, or else he's just going to kick us out of his office.

"What's this about?" Nolan asks, cutting right to the chase. He thinks I must be one of those lost rich girls whose life has gone very very wrong. Why else would I be in the company of vampires and hippies? Have I ever mentioned that he's not a big fan of vampires? Yeah, I suppose I could have told someone who's a little more accepting of the supernatural world, but he's the most powerful human I know.

"We're going to be honest with you," I say. "Someone's going to attack."

"The NSA and the CIA deal with this kind of thing," he says, sounding uninterested. He thinks I must be doped up on something, or else it's my blondeness that's affecting my brain. What hair colour has to do with intelligence, I have no idea. It's not as if I used harmful chemicals to achieve this degree of blondeness. "This is the FBI."

"I understand that," I say as politely as I can, "but I don't know the directors of either the NSA or the CIA."

"All right, then," he says. He's more interested in the steak that he will be having for dinner tomorrow night. "Who is attacking? Where are they attacking? You have five minutes."

"Trolls," I say.

"Oh please." Nolan leans back in his chair dramatically and turns his eyes to the sky. Or rather, his ceiling. "Next you'll be telling me that there are fairies!"

Fintan suddenly leaps onto Nolan's desk, scattering papers everywhere. All vestiges of his humanity are gone. His eyes are glowing and completely white. His skin has become the colour of limestone. His ears are decidedly pointed, and so are his teeth. "That's right," he whispers as he leans in close to the shaking director of the FBI. "There are faeries too, but they're not as nice as you would like them to be."

Nolan visibly swallows. "I'm listening," he says.

And then all the lights go out throughout Manhattan.

—

No one knows what is going on. The phones aren't working. The lights aren't working. It's as if everything electronic in the city has stopped working. No, it's not 'as if'. It is a fact that nothing electronic in the city is working; not the lights, not the cars, not the phones, not even the vending machines. For the first time, I can see stars in Manhattan. Too bad I'm too freaked out to enjoy the view.

I feel funny, like there's something I'm not seeing.

Actually, there's a lot that I'm not seeing. My eyes are not used to such darkness. All my life, I've lived with the existence of electric lights. But that's not the point. I feel something. There's not just oxygen and nitrogen and pollution in the air.

There is magic too. It has to be magic.

Although I might be wrong. I hope I'm wrong and this is all just a freak electro-magnetic flare. Somehow I don't think that's the case.

Instead of talking, which would be useless, I cast out my thoughts. I want to see what dangers we might be facing. I sense a lot of fear; primal fear, like the kind that any creature feels when it is being pursued by a terrifying predator. I concentrate harder, trying to pluck an image from those thousands of panicking minds. It's harder than you think. These people are used to having lights all around them all the time. All of a sudden, they have no artificial lighting. It's going to take them a while for them to adjust to it, and whilst they're adjusting, they're really easy targets.

Eric curses under his breath. Being a vampire, he can see better in the dark than any of us, and he also has excellent long distance vision. "It's like we said, Nolan," he says. "Trolls."


	25. Diamonds Are Not Forever

**A/N: **Gods, it has been a long time since I've thought about this story. I had to reread the whole thing and my notes AND all the bits I deleted from the original but kept. Anyway, I'm all up to date with it once again, and on with the supernatural war!

**Chapter 25: Diamonds Are Not Forever**

There are trolls in Manhattan. I can't fucking believe it! I'm not going to apologize for my language because I think I'm entirely justified. Gran would be so horrified if she could see what I've turned into. She raised me to be a lady, and instead I'm…

Well, I have no idea what I am now, and did I mention there were _trolls_ in Manhattan?

Back to the problem at hand. We're stuck in the FBI building, on the twentieth floor, and there are trolls rampaging through the city. No one knows what's going on except us, and we are not prepared to fight off monsters that, half an hour ago, were just plot devices in dark fairy tales designed to scare children into submission. At least, that's what _I_ thought. The others obviously knew better. However, their knowledge does not make them prepared.

There is no way for Eric to rally his troops in time without cell phones. It's just us. "Sookie, stay here," Eric tells me.

"No!" I respond immediately before it dawns on me that I would be absolutely useless in a battle against an army of trolls. I doubt that reading their minds would be that helpful if they were as dumb as everyone says they are, and stiletto heels are going to have no effect on giants like those. Somehow, I have a feeling that Tolkien and Rowling and all the writers of fairy tales and fantasy novels got quite close whenever they wrote about trolls. It's just a gut feeling.

"Pam, stay with Sookie," says Eric, ignoring me. He knows I had a brain fart just then. Is it a curse or a blessing when your significant other can practically read your mind? Perhaps it's a little bit of both. "Defend her with your life."

"I don't need people laying down their lives for me!" I declare. I mean every bit of that. My life is not worth more than Pam's or anyone else's for that matter, and I would never forgive myself if anyone actually went and died for me. I know that a man can have no greater love than to lay down his life for his friends and yada yada and so on and so forth, but while I like knowing that I am on the receiving end of that kind of love, I don't want people to demonstrate their love in that way. It's so tragic.

* * *

He knows that she will not willingly remain behind, but there is no way in hell that he is going to let Sookie confront trolls, especially when she's unarmed. Eric just has to trust that she understands, and that his child will be competent enough to keep her from running headlong into danger, as she seems to have a tendency to do.

"Can you get weapons?" the Viking demanded of Nolan. He knows he's scaring the man, with his fangs and his manner. He doesn't give two shits about what the director of the FBI thinks of him. He hires PR people to manage people's opinion of him so he can be as much of an asshole as he wants and not have to worry about it.

"The bureau has a cache of weapons in this building," says Nolan. "Nothing big, though. You need the army for that."

What they really need is heavy artillery. A tank or two would be nice, but Eric's not stupid enough to be under the impression that the FBI has access to those. No, they'll have to kill these trolls the old fashioned way. Swords are much easier to get than guns. He has a dozen of them, from various time periods, hidden away in the safe in his Manhattan apartment. The medieval longsword would be best for such a task as troll killing, he deems.

"This is just like old times, isn't it?" asks Finn. The mad faerie is grinning broadly with a wicked gleam in his eye. In a bygone age, Finn was one of those people who craved the thrill of battle. Time, and love, has mellowed him a little, but there is still quite a bit left of the ferocious faerie prince Eric once fought side by side with. Well, back to back would be a more accurate way of putting it.

"If by old times, you mean the Dark Ages, then I really can do without them," says Barisan. "There was no broadband."

"There isn't any broadband right now," Finn points out. "In essence, we have just been catapulted back into what you call the 'Dark Ages', except humans are now not capable of dealing with the lack of electronics." It is just like those two to get into a discussion about society or history or something just as unsuitable right before battle. They have always been this way and Eric suspects they always will be this way. In his long, nomadic life, they have been his only constants. He hopes that he will have a new constant in Sookie.

He turns to her. Her face is pale, but she is determined to remain calm, or at least appear calm. Swiftly, he bends down to bring his lips to hers. Her mouth is warm and soft. She leans into him and her grip on him tightens. He pulls away before she can persuade him to either take her with him or stay behind with her. Knowing Sookie, she will never ask for the latter, but she will do her damndest best to tag along.

"For luck," he says.

"Be careful," she whispers.

"Don't worry, Sookie. I won't die."

"If you do, I will find you wherever you end up and kill you again myself."

He laughs. "I will hold you to that promise, lover," he says. And then he takes a leap through the window. The other two might want to teleport, but he prefers to fly. It allows him to scout out the area and assess the situation. Besides, he needs to get his swords. Those magic users don't need their steel, but he does.

* * *

Finding trolls is not a difficult task. Neither is hiding from them. No one ever feared a troll's intelligence. It's their lack of it that makes them so terrifying and so effective as frontline soldiers. Goblins are cowards. Trolls aren't smart enough to be afraid so they are impossible to stop. Destruction is their specialty. It's what they were bred for.

Screaming humans fill the streets like torrents of ants, all running in the same direction. They clamber over cars, buses, humans; anything and everything that is in their way of escape. The sounds of glass being smashed and steel groaning as it is torn apart harmonizes the high-pitched cacophonic symphony.

In the dark, the humans are a mass of confusion. They have lived with artificial lighting for so long that without it, they are completely lost and in a state of panic. Looking at them, it is difficult to think that a mere three hundred years ago, they survived just fine without all these electronic gadgets.

It's not hard to identify the trolls. They don't exactly make themselves inconspicuous. Their only camouflage is their natural skin colouring and texture, which resemble the surface of lava rock. In New York, that is the equivalent of wearing the Union Jack in the middle of Texas and proclaiming the United States' allegiance to their rightful British sovereign.

They are smashing anything and everything, using pulled-up street lamps as clubs. So the fae don't even bother arming these things anymore. At least that would work to their advantage.

The human police are there, trying their best to contain the uncontainable. Their attempt is valiant, but ultimately futile. Their cars aren't working, for one. All they have are their little handguns that wouldn't even stop Pam, let alone a fully grown troll.

One of the creatures roars as a stray bullet fortuitously hits it and penetrates the skin. It heads for the group of policemen, who immediately scatter. The creature picks up a car as if it were a toy and hurls it at them with deadly accuracy. Eric takes off into the air. He does not have the advantage of size over these creatures, but it does not mean he cannot have the advantage of height. He drops down on the troll's head and plunges his sword into the creature's eye and then flies off again before it can seize him.

His sword is not quite long enough to penetrate the brain, and troll skulls are thick. He darts in and out, scoring tiny nicks and gashes in the troll's hide. Chow is on the ground, trying to do the same thing. The Chinese vampire zooms out of the way as the troll tries to crush him beneath its giant two-toed feet with thick nails that look more like hooves. Vampires might not be able to do a lot of damage to a troll without the right weaponry —although Eric would love to try to kill a troll with a medieval-style lance. However he knows he can't kill a troll on his own unless he has great luck and Eric Northman is not a great believer of luck — but they can distract the troll until someone with the capacity to end its life comes along. That is what warlocks and faerie princes are for.

"It looks like I'm doing all the work up here!" he calls down to the two sorcerers below.

"Killing a troll is not like killing just another animal!" Barisan says as he dives to the ground to avoid being brained by the troll's club.

"You mean you can't blast it to pieces with a grenade or something?" demands Chow, who is way too young to have encountered anything more exotic than a grizzly bear.

"That might be a viable option if we had one," says Finn.

"You're the wizard."

"I prefer sorcerer, and I can't conjure one up out of thin air!" The faerie throws a ball of blue fire at the troll, which strikes the projectile with its club, baseball style, and sends it flying into a building. Windows and walls explode, sending shards of glass and steel everywhere. Eric narrowly avoids being staked by a pencil. _That _would have been humiliating.

"You've killed a troll before!" says Eric as he lunges at the troll again, scoring a nick on its neck, but not deeply enough to cut anything important. Compared with the troll's size, his sword looks like a bee sting. He flips backwards off the troll's skull and lands "How did you do it last time?"

"I had diamonds at that time!"

"And you don't have any on you now?"

"Forgive me if I didn't bring my troll killing kit to New York City!"

"We could probably raid Tiffany's," suggests Barisan. "It's right there." Without waiting for a reply, he breaks through the door and disappears inside.

"Pam is going to murder you!" Eric calls after him.

* * *

I do something that surprises me and will most likely surprise Eric; I wait in the office with Pam and Nolan and refrain from biting my fingernails. It's a pain to wait for manicures to dry, and I don't want to ruin the very nice one I have right now. Besides, I'm pretty sure nail polish is toxic, and I'm not Snow White. A prince's kiss won't bring me back from the dead, even if I do have a real prince.

Instead, I try to pray. I don't know who I'm praying to. Judging by the state of my city, I'm pretty sure God's either asleep or He simply doesn't give a damn about us. But surely there must be someone up there listening, right? Well, what harm can it do? It's worth a shot. I might even get lucky and get a direct line to God or Goddess or whatever.

Five minutes in, I give up. I can't concentrate. My mind is too busy thinking about Eric and imagining the danger's he's in. The trolls in my imagination grow larger and more terrifying by the minute. I stop myself before I imagine them with spiked tails. That's dragons. I desperately hope there aren't any dragons.

Outside, I can hear distant roars and terrified screams. Occasionally, there's something that sounds like an explosion. I clench my fists. The diamond Eric gave me glistens in the light of the stars and the fires.

You often hear that the worst part of war is the waiting. Guess what? I believe it.

* * *

Barisan loathes trolls. They are large, ugly, difficult to kill and have awful breath. Clearly, there is no such thing as toothpaste in the Otherworld. Come to think of it, with all modern technology rendered useless by whatever spell the Fae used, it will only be a matter of time before the world runs out of toothpaste and they have to resort to using salt or chalk again. That would be bloody awful.

The diamonds are in a safe with a six-digit code and a foot thick steel door. Barisan could have just opened the safe in a more traditional manner, but he's not the type. Why would God give him these powers if He didn't intend for him to use them, for legal means or otherwise? Besides, the traditional way is just too time consuming. Time is something he doesn't have right now. It might be ironic for an immortal man to say something like this but it's really not.

The door's edges turn red, and then white. He kicks it in when the edges have melted away. Inside are a vast array of stones, both cut and uncut. The warlock quickly selects the brightest stones —and briefly wonders about the price tags— before rushing outside.

In the three minutes he's been gone, the troll has pulverized the pavement with its club. The warlock finds Fintan and presses the velvet bag of diamonds into his hand. "It's up to you now."

"Watch and learn, Frenchman," says the faerie with a grim smile as he up-ends the bag. Pink, yellow, blue and regular diamonds spill onto his palm. "Nice choices, by the way."

"I won't settle for anything but the best," says Barisan. Fintan closes his hands around the diamonds and begin to speak under his breath in an ancient tongue that has long disappeared from the world. Power hums in the air. It seems to the warlock that his friend's hands are beginning to glow.

"Eric, Chow, out of the way!" Fintan suddenly shouts before he opens his hands. A beam of light bursts forth and strikes the troll. It stops with its club raised. At first, it doesn't seem as if the light has done anything to it, but when it stays that way for a very long time, Barisan realizes it isn't going to move again anytime soon, if ever at all.

The light has somehow turned the creature into solid rock.

They gather around at the feet of the stone troll, its mouth still open in a perpetual silent roar. "What was that?" whispers Chow. His voice is full of wariness.

"Magic," says Fintan.

"That's some powerful magic," says Barisan.

"Thus the tools," says the faerie. He shows them the diamonds in his palm. They have been rendered into dust. He lets the dust trickle through his fingers and fall to the ground, where it is blown away by the breeze.

"That is some very expensive powerful magic," Barisan amends.

"It's the only way to permanently kill a troll without magic lances or modern artillery. Unlike those two things, diamonds are naturally occurring. Diamonds are receptacles and containers for sunlight, if you will. Trolls fear sunlight. Weak sunlight won't kill them, but enough of it can turn them into stone."

"You released the sunlight from the diamonds?" says the warlock.

"Yes. Unfortunately, the process destroys the diamonds. Luckily no one's going to care right now."

* * *

It turns out, Fintan was very wrong about no one caring about those diamonds. "You robbed _Tiffany's_ and then reduced ten million dollars worth of diamonds to dust?!" demands Pam.

"Aw, come on, Pam," says Sookie. "They killed the troll. I say that's worth it…" His bonded does not look convinced. Eric has to admit they were very nice diamonds, but if he had to choose between Manhattan and sparkly stones, he would always choose Manhattan. That is the true gem. Not that it would be much of a gem if the Fae got what they wanted.

"But…!" For once, Eric's progeny is without words. If the situation were not so dire and post-apocalyptic, Eric might have laughed. Right now, he's more worried about what might come through the portal next. He's pretty certain this isn't the only troll in town. Hadn't the cryptic letter said 'trolls'?

Nolan paces in his office. Eric smells the man's fear in his sweat. He's not the kind to show it, but the director of the FBI is terrified. "I'm going to need your help," the vampire says quietly.

"How am I supposed to help you?" demands Nolan. "I don't even know what the fuck is going on!" He runs his hand over the balding spot on his head. It's shiny with perspiration.

"I just need big guns," says Eric. "There won't be a Tiffany's or Cartier's every time we fight a troll, and there won't be just trolls. I guarantee it."

"In your opinion, Mr Northman, what are our chances of winning this war?" asks Nolan.

Eric ponders his answer. Should he tell the truth, or a white lie? "It's…minimal," he finally says, deciding to go for the truth. "But it does not mean we should not fight it. The Fae are powerful, but not invincible."

"They don't particularly like iron," said Fintan as he twirls one of his iron darts between his fingers.

"But you—" says Nolan.

"Hybrid," says Fintan.

"We have iron in Manhattan," says Sookie. "Although I suppose it's all in those steel cables and things like that."

"It's manpower that we lack," says Barisan. "If it takes four of us and three diamonds to deal with one troll, how are we going to cope with the real invasion force?"

* * *

My fingers shake as I gratefully accept the mug of hot tea from Fintan. I'm not sure how he managed to procure it. Suffice to say I have suspicions that his methods were not entirely legal. Then again, who can be bothered with counting dollars when there's every chance in the world of being eaten by a goblin or squashed by a troll?

Anarchy has taken over New York City. The police and the authorities are trying to maintain order, but it's futile without an adequate communications system, and everything, from the internet to the traffic system, is down. Even the cars aren't working. Actually, nothing which involves electrical circuitry is working right now. It's as if an electro-magnetic pulse has hit the city and blasted it back to the Stone Age.

Looters have taken to the streets. These aren't your ordinary lowlifes, but just desperate regular people trying to find enough provisions so they and their families can survive. It's not that they're bad people, but in bad times, it's everyone for themselves. You can hardly blame them.

Sequestered in the FBI's Manhattan headquarters with the director of the bureau, one faerie prince, one warlock, and three sleeping vampires, I'm as safe as anyone can be in such situations, except I'm the sole reason why this is happening.

"I know you're blaming yourself, Sookie," says Fintan. "Don't."

"But it's my fault—" I begin.

"It's Niall's fault. _You_ did not send the troll. All of this is beyond your control," says my grandfather. He makes sense, and I know he's making sense, but it does not make me feel much better. I am the one who has the ability to stop all of this. If I surrender myself to Niall, and let him marry me off…

Perhaps I'm just too selfish, but I can't do that. I can't let someone have so much control over me again, not after last time. I am never subjecting myself to that again. That helplessness, that sense of hopelessness…I would rather die.

Except that wouldn't solve anything because from what I know of Niall, if he couldn't have me, he would just have revenge.

And we all know who is wrath is directed at right now.

The only way is to kill him. I know it sounds extreme, to want to murder your own kin, but sometimes, such sentiments are justified.

Fintan must have read my thoughts, because his eyes suddenly take on a strange light. He grips my hand, and for a moment, I get a glimpse into his mind. He doesn't mind the idea of killing his father. There is no love between them. Perhaps there was, once upon a time, but not anymore. Niall has only ever tried to use him to further his own cause of dominating the Otherworld. His sole purpose of acquiring me is to use me as a breeding machine to further propagate his line, ensuring that there will be more heirs to his throne should he fall in battle. And God forbid that his heirs be of second-grade blood —Niall's wording, not mine.

However, falling short of that, Fintan is considering closing the portal, although that in itself is not an easy task. Niall's magic is very powerful, and he has drawn on the powers of his kin to open the gates. It will take even more power to close them. My grandfather cannot do it on his own. He has Barisan, but even the two of them are not enough. It takes blood to open the gates, and it will take blood to close them. Not just any blood. Powerful blood, willingly shed through the sacrifice of a magical being, be it fae, magi, vampire, or any other one of those. The power that is released in that sacrifice will be enough to close the portal.

"No, you're not doing that!" I shout. My tea spills as I stand up suddenly. The hot liquid burns my hands and my legs as it splashes onto my skin, but I don't care. "Nobody is going to die because of me. I've said that before, and I'll say that as many times as I have to!"

"Sookie, if someone doesn't do something, more people are going to die because Niall wants you."

"If anyone should be doing something, then it's me," I say. "It's me he wants." I pause. "I'm a magical creature, aren't I?"

"And what will that achieve?" asks Fintan. "If you die, then this—" He indicates the chaos outside. The once ordered streets of New York City are littered with debris and looks more like London after the Blitz. Nothing moves. It's as if the city is already dead. The abandoned skyscrapers, against the hazy sky, resemble dead trees in a burned forest.

"This will all have been in vain," says my grandfather. "Why do you think we are fighting? Dying is easy. It only takes one split second, but it is not about you. Do you think Eric is just going to go back to his old existence as if you were never part of it? Do you think I could live with myself for letting you…letting you…"

He turns away from me. "The thing about death, Sookie, is that it's not really about you. When you're dead, you won't be here to care anymore. It's about the people who have lost you."

The words, the tone, it breaks my heart. I've lost people in my life. I know how it feels, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone else, much less the people I love. I reach forward to squeeze Fintan's shoulder. He glances back.

"We'll find another way, then," I say. "There has to be one. We've come this far. I'm not about to give up just because we're faced with overwhelming forces. Again."

He pulls me into a hug. I feel his heart beating. With him, I feel safe. I know I will be fine. Fintan, Eric, Barisan; they're not going to let anything happen to me _or_ the world. Niall has chosen to make enemies of the wrong people. "That's my girl," he whispers. "You really are of Adele's blood."

"And yours too," I say. "You're a survivor."

"I have to say, your survival instincts are rather dubious."

"Hey, you're the one who's been on the run for a thousand years, so you can't say anything."

"Nine hundred and fifty two. And I'm still alive. You could stand to learn a thing or two from me, granddaughter."

"I don't have that impressive arsenal of faerie weapons at hand, gramps. It's a slight disadvantage. And just because you do doesn't mean you're allowed to throw yourself into suicidal missions, okay?"

Fintan smiles. "Agreed," he says "Neither of us will do anything stupid unless there is no other choice."

* * *

As night falls, apprehension wraps its fingers around us with a strangling hold, making it hard to breathe. What is going to come through that portal next? I can hardly believe nothing has happened in the twelve hours since the defeat of the troll which trashed Manhattan. Perhaps other things have been going on, but we were simply ignorant of them because we have no way of communicating with the outside world.

"The waiting is the worst part of any war," Barisan complains as he searches the FBI's building in vain to find some form of alcohol.

"I would have thought you would have gotten used to it by now, being the veteran of so many," says Eric in reply as he peers into the inky distance. I'm not used to not being surrounded by artificial lighting. The stars have never seemed so luminous and numerous before, like a sprinkling of icing sugar on black silk. But I can't enjoy it. "Where is your personal squadron, anyway? I thought they were coming?"

"You and me both," says the warlock, finally giving up on his futile search. "They should be here by now. It's been days, and I haven't heard a word from them." His brow is furrowed with worry. He puts his fingers on the bridge of his nose as if to stem a nosebleed and bows his head with a sigh. "If something has happened…if something has taken out a whole squadron of warlocks…"

"You don't know what's happened," I say firmly, more eager to prove it to myself than to him that there is still hope for our reinforcements. "Do you have any way of contacting your headquarters or whatever they're called?"

"I have," said Barisan. "They know nothing about it. I fear they are lost to us."

I sit back to absorb this news. A _whole_ squadron of warlocks? I don't know very much about warlocks and magi and stuff, but I know Barisan and what he's capable of. And a squadron of ten people just like him must have ten times the power. For them to be completely wiped off the face of the earth…

"What's capable of doing that?" I whisper.

"A faerie, a more powerful magical being, a dragon, the list can go on," says Barisan. "Warlocks are no longer as strong as we used to be. Fewer of them are born, and more die. Magic has grown weak in this world to be replaced by science and technology, while it is as strong as it has ever been in the Otherworld."

"We can't just sit here and do nothing!" I say. A thousand thoughts whir through my head. I am one eighth faerie, and it's been proven that I have that essential spark. They're fighting this hugely unbalanced war because of me. I have to fight this war. "Teach me, Fintan."

"Teach you?" he asks.

"I have the spark. I have power. Teach me to use it."


End file.
